After the voices in the kitchen crescendoed
and the man in red excused himself for un momento
to find his wife who’s predisposed
to speak about life on Europa,
before the garbage went out
and the woman upstairs came down,
after the professor’s toast to iron cores
and the collapse of white dwarfs,
after the dwarfs had outlasted the Doritos
and neutrons were becoming neutrinos
and searching for the corkscrew
proved futile, and the shoeless crowd
at the foosball table roared
a final roar, before
‘I didn’t see Robert and Bea’
‘Bob’s in Cairo’ ‘She
still could’ve come,’
after crust became crumb
and the coats walked off
the bed, there was nothing left
but a man in a house
vacuumed of sound.
Standing as one afraid
to lower his umbrella after a rain.
In a dumbstruck, post-bang lacuna.
A napkin of cashew nuts
on the coffee table, chip
fragments in a basket. Olive pits
beside a plate of half-eaten salmon.
A dark spot where spillage dampened
the futon. The buzz of photons
fleeing Earth, radiating on
through infinite abyss,
that faint tinnitus.