Winter
We listened to a lost ship in the harbor,
we listened to the train that knew its way,
counted each remaining stubborn leaf,
watched the curling smoke gather by the bay,
recalled the many times we played this game:
I, dead to his prowling breath;
he, circling my December bed,
daring me to make my move -
reach for a cigarette
reach for a beer, or better yet,
return his grey-eyed, insolent stare.
We listened to his lean heart tick
the calendar of days,
until, at last,
he decided, he alone,
that it was time to leave;
sniffed my face, the bed,
the corners of the room;
followed his own soft tread
down the hall, to the yard,
across town, fields, continents,
as ever, returning,
with each departing step.