Click the pictures below. People who do not read poetry very rarely write it.
Last night waits in the kitchen.
Skillet still on the stove and pan tipped into the sink, blood drained to the bottom. A drawer pulled open, forks, spoons and knives pitched forward. Plates on the table, unscraped, unstacked. Chairs shoved back, garbage can toppled, grounds and rinds and bones spill from its mouth. The back door stands open, the driveway is empty.