December Half-Day

The far end of the room went dark

before I noticed. Someone hit the switch

on their way out, and now just my light

was going—not off, not on,

that particular flicker that means

something loose.

I ate the rice cold.

The plastic fork kept bending sideways.

I had the lid propped against a stapler

like it was a meal and not

the thing it was.

Outside, four o'clock

was already dark. December does that.

I know they were in a hurry.

I know nobody meant anything by it.

But no one said goodbye,

and the light kept deciding,

and I sat there with the bent fork

and the cold rice

and the feeling—not loneliness,

something smaller and more embarrassing—

that I had been

simply

not remembered.