The sound of your shoes dropping, ​
                                                                          thwack!​
and another thwack!

tells me our careful trestle has collapsed,
lunchtime détente, over.

Never mind, this is the reason for a bag of books,
why I dump out Heaney, Hemingway, Joyce, Oates, Vuong
and read madly under the monkeypod tree.

Still, the ache of your silence stays with me,
only thing to do—swim to the pier,
return to find a plover pecking 
at the flyleaf picture of
James Joyce.

We will learn to tolerate.
Become happy.
Eventually, news of each other’s deaths
will not trouble us.

But just now
you were watching from a fourth floor window; I saw your muscled back
retreating.


Image credit:Michael M

Trish Saunders writes from Seattle and Honolulu and, in her imagination, from the shores of Crater Lake, Oregon. Her poems and micro-fiction are published or forthcoming in Right Hand Pointing, Eunoia Review, Califragile, Blast Furnace Press, Off The Coast, Pacifica Poetry Review, among others. She is hopeful for November 2020.