A SONNET ON LEAVING
Sometimes leaving needs no much ado
no jet plane, train ticket or boarding pass
sometimes yesterday’s clothes will do
after you threw the lampshade, called me an ass.
In rage you kissed the door
left a smudge of your expensive lips
in rage I bruised the same door.
To the tavern, you think, for sips.
How convincing it must be
when your leg grazed my cold bedside
no lampshade light with which to see
but still you don’t call, not your pride.
& tomorrow when you declare me missing,
This sonnet will be in your mail, hissing.