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(Sep 1st, 2015 at 08:03:22 PM)
When you're out if town
I stay at work later
content to start my dinner at 8
and go to bed at one, or two, or three.

The day drags on
one foot skidding slowly up
to just past the front of the other,
then the other doing the same.

Just like normal. But here
the night takes on different hues.
The kitchen light stays off,
the porch light on for delivery;

The food is warmer, if only slightly,
without the delay of a second plate to build.
And the bed is cooler
absorbing only a single person's body heat.

Sometimes I decide to cook
but it's always too much.
I never learned an individual's serving size
so Tupperware builds up in the fridge.

On the drives to and from work
I call this place home. Just like normal.
But when you're gone it's the wrong word;
when you're gone it's just a house.