11/08 When the last one returns

i
I look around every corner,
half expecting to see the last one
he loved, walking towards me,
through me, to claw him back.

ii
It's easier to stay home,
pull the blinds to make the house look vacant
and derelict of the keening wail
of some limpid, under/over-sexed
middle-aged woman waiting
for the right time to phone the lawyer
and set in motion proceedings
that won't be turned back.

iii
He wears this smile, it's not for me.
It's carried from some secret memory
he shared with her. I don't want to know,
but wish he'd choose between living
in the past, or the present.

I may have to walk.