The pen rolled away while we were still talking

The pen rolled away while we were still talking

about money or kids or who’s going to leave.

I went down to find it, tired of the walking

and the way we both keep a card up our sleeve.

It’s quiet down here near the legs of the oak,

away from the voices and the weight of the air.

I can see where the finish is chipped and broke,

and a piece of old gum is stuck to the chair.

The crossbars are scuffed by a hundred different heels,

jagged little marks where no one thinks to look.

It’s the only part of this house that feels

like the honest ending of a very long book.