The Kitchen Counter

He asked me about work in the kitchen light,

my eyes already on the phone's small screen.

The counter between us—I wasn't there right,

just present enough to be seen.

His hands were on the counter, asking me

about my job, my life, the things

a father asks when his son's partly

somewhere else, already thinking of leaving.

Three days later he was gone.

Not metaphorically. Actually gone.

And I can see that kitchen still—

the counter's edge, the coffee's chill,

the phone's weight in my hand—

but not the specific thing

his hands were doing,

or if he was tired,

or if there was something he wanted to say

before I was already away.

The phone is still here.

The counter is still here.

I'm still here.

He's the only one who left.