G. C. Jeffers

The warmth of whiskey and vinyl
and laughter and good friends

follows me home. I turn the lock
only to walk into still silence.

I see the traces of your presence:
a crumpled pillow, an empty dish. . .

The wet noses greet me in a frenzy
while my heart limps down the hall,

and I sit and I drink and I listen
to the rain pour into the street.