Thursday, Probably

I had been waiting since Monday

for something to happen.

By Thursday I understood

it wasn't going to.

That's a different kind of tired

than the kind bad news makes.

Bad news at least arrives.

This just kept—

not.

I watched a candle burn to the wax pool.

Not on purpose.

I forgot to blow it out

until the wick went under

and the smoke rose in one thin line

and then was gone.

Friday. Someone asked about my week.

Quiet, I said.

Nice, they said.

The candle holder is still on my table.

I keep meaning to chip out the wax.

But something about leaving it—

the record of a thing

that used itself up completely

waiting.