Leftovers

The ghosts of absent sounds proliferate:
the phone that seldom rings;
dust-bunnies scuttling in the empty closet;
the doors that do not close unless I close them.

They say that conversations with chairs and pillows,
vocal disagreements with TV newscasters,
will diminish over time, like the accidental
setting of the second place at the table.

The solitary diner has a choice.
Eat the mac and cheese out of the pan?
No one to say me nay. Saves a plate, soap, water:
a veritable ecological marvel am I.

Strange freedom comes with this new life:
the shock of having always my own way–
like being three again, perhaps,
without the tantrums or the early bed.

Ah, bed! More freedoms: make or leave unmade;
sleep on my accustomed side, or hers–
or on the floor when crowding memories
do not leave room for me and quiet rest.

Still, I would trade this silent life
for that remembered voice
reminding from another room
that dirty socks belong in the hamper,
not on the bedroom floor.