Christopher Profeta

Your shirts are hanging in their closet, cold

And stiff, unworn since when you had to go

To work, to age before becoming old,

To think the thoughts of childhood not so.

The television set is still aglow

And bleeding sound into these empty rooms;

The stars are spinning on that silly show

We loved – the stars as bright as their costumes.

But dinner’s cooked, the smell it lurks and looms

Throughout the house like secret beauty can...