Sun, 23 November

INVENTORY OF WHAT REMAINED One tablecloth, linen, still creased where it was folded for storage. Two wine rings, overlapping, burgundy on white. Six chairs at angles no one chose. One candle, spent to the brass. Four napkins, variously crushed. One conversation, unfinished, about whether the clouds would clear. Three plates with the ghost geometry of meals. One window, open two inches, admitting November. One silence that sat down after everyone left and has not yet been asked to go.