Justa few days ago he was fillibustering,
twisting my ear this time about my
abominable economic ignorance.
For an hour after he left
I panicked about my mounting bills.
Today there is a blank space
in that chair
a silent node that ignores
my execrable hunger for his disapproval.
How could he dare to choose
the silent inside of a small urn
over my aching riposte?
The voice of the poetriverwriter reads: