The List

Yellow pad, pen catching

on the rough grain of the paper.

Milk, eggs, bread—the usual batching

of needs, a weekly caper.

Then, 'oatmeal for him,' my hand wrote,

before I could even think.

He hasn't been here, not a note,

for months now, by the sink.

The ink just sat there, a dark stain,

a phantom hunger I'd placed.

A quiet ache, a soft, slow pain,

a habit I hadn't erased.

I crossed it out, a heavy line,

then added 'salt,' just because.

Life's taste, not quite so fine,

not quite the same as it was.