The Empty Squares

The hall table,

a layered history of mail,

and there,

peeking out from under junk,

the Sunday paper.

Not the whole thing,

just the puzzle section,

folded over itself,

a brown stain spreading

at the corner where coffee

must have spilled weeks ago.

The pen lies beside it,

its tip calcified,

a tiny monument

to a thought that stalled.

Four-letter word for 'regret',

I never even got there.

Across,

a few bold letters,

like teeth missing

from a smile.

Down,

a longer word,

started, then abandoned,

leaving blanks

like small,

expectant

mouths.

It just sits there,

a quiet accusation

of Sundays

I let slide.