When people you know are far away and alone

I'm alone in a living room
looking through spiderweb dew
tearing down foggy glass. Dogs are panting
on porches, licking the pink pads of their feet.
Bowls filled with mushy kibble,
sons taking out the trash. They're blowing
pretend smoke rings and pushing their fingers
through the middle.

My wife called me earlier. She's still in a hospital
with her sister. We talked for about fifteen minutes.
I coughed to redirect conversation from her sister
to the dirty pile of clothes on the bed,
the scuff marks in the enterance way.
She left a pair of dull sterling silver earings
on the corner table and I spun them
around my index finger when she sighed.

These couch cushions feel like burlap against my thighs.
My cell phone is still open in my lap. CNN on mute.
Kids are still outside hurling bags of coffee grounds,
tampons, cans and banana peels into huge blue
rectangles. A couple is across the street walking
a malteese, laughing about work or something unimportant.
The last thing I remember you saying on the phone
was a brief description of how your sister
tried to bargain disease for housekeeping favors.

"She's so alone in here," I heard you drag your fingernail
against the keypad," all she's doing is crying. She
can't even see that I'm here. This is the loneliest place."
No more kids outside throwing away trash.
No more collies growling like idling trucks.
I watch a newcasters mouth move
with nothing coming out
and this living room becomes the lonliest place.
No one is here to bargin with
or bargin for.