That bit of light after its source has gone away,

the grainy skies of 5 pm. 

On goes the gas lit fire next to the sun room once 

streaming with white light, its windows now black like paintings hung.

The granite counter covered in crumbs, business cards, mint

wrappers, a clipping from the Style section

and a bowl of cashews.

Somewhere is a stockpile of inky felt tip pens–only black–

stacks of yellow notebook paper

and a rolodex of name cards; half of whom are dead. 

A browning yellow chair molded to my grandfather,

the lampshade of his reading light, singed by bulbs and time.

I lean back, as the evening darkens and comes on. 

The candles lit, stove on, table set.

I don’t want to waste my life.