Pale shafts of sunlight stream

through holes in violet curtains,

striking a floral china plate I cleaned

and laid amidst the dust upon the table.

Atop the plate lie two dead

stems filled with browning jasmine buds—

picked this morning knowing you

were coming home.

Mold pocks the ceiling over your recliner,

its green-brown bruise complementing

the torn chestnut leather that faces

French double doors with a stone balcony

overlooking an overgrown garden

rimmed with nude statues.

None of them is you;

their beautiful physiques are not yours,

yet I look on you fondly when you’re home.

The entire parlor mourns your absence,

though not for long—

for the stomp of your cane will dent the

dusty hardwood and your worn loafers

will scratch the stained rug rounding

the furniture I pushed with excruciating

effort and slipping under a table

set with plates I polished for two,

all done before you come home

so you finally notice me.