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I greet the silent empty house every morning
Holding conversations as though someone
Was in the next room.
Sometimes I imagine it’s you
(Except you have never seen this house.
If you think of it at all
It’s a fleeting thought that
I must be living somewhere.)
It’s hard to fit you into these small rooms
Packed too closely
To give you room to hide.
So I talk to the ether
Which is really just talking to myself
but that’s a different conversation.
These morning chats are just that:
Conversational
A kaffeeklatch of one.

#21 in 30 Poems for September

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