The last

Every room has one
Last Person, who exits
and nobody follows
until the room ceases to exist—
becomes only its parts,
space joined to other space.
Here is how it goes:
Last opens the door
perhaps lingering, maybe not
and probably not knowing “I am Last—“
then shuts the door;
then time stands still;
then one day the room is gone.
The loves and laughter, the
drinks and deep conversation,
the languid TV afternoons: all float out
to dissipate, suddenly unbound.
So I linger
in case I am the Last
when leaving empty rooms,
a small memoriam
to the present’s slipping into past.






February 2020