He sits there

He sits there,
yet he's already gone.

I'm too exhausted to move.
The heat has tired me,
the week has gone by too fast,
and that's tired me too.

He sits in a favourite chair,
smoking the nub of a cigarette.
And he's looking at me -
he's talking a little bit,
but I'm not hearing the words.
I'm too lost in my own misery.
Besides, they mean nothing
it's all been said and done.

So we're sitting here.
The heat has drained us both,
I helped him pack.
That left us silent and brooding.
His plane leaves tomorrow,
there's no stopping any of it.

The cars droning on by,
are the same as yesterday,
or the day before.
The grey tarmac,
the passengers on the buses,
the pedestrians,
the street corners -
everything is old, old, old.

Quietly, he puffs at his cigarette.

(Published in New Coin, in A Life Stripped of Illusions and on www.southernrainpoetry.com)