The Stop

I heard the clock strike an unknown
hour; heard the sounds in the street,
and the neighbors fighting. 
No words this time, nor the need. 
I watched you tape the boxes tight,
saw you bending, sweating with the weight
of exit.

I moved to the bedroom but could not
stop inside, not wanting to see the bed
unmade, stripped, as if, suddenly naked,
no bodies had lain there. Nor would I 
look at the walls, and see the outlines
where photographs once reminded 
us of places we'd been or wanted to go. Silly now, 
to simply think, 'What color should I choose?'

I tried to sit -- among all this mundane.
But doing that would lead to thinking,
which I did not want to do. What good
was thought, or memory? Fragile 
as hands washing, or skin that has
just been loved. I had to act, but 
what would motion do? I sat
and simply watched you.

At some point there was nothing;
it had all been done. Fumbling for
something to say, as the movers
took everything away, we stood.

I think that we had never once 
held our eyes that long on each other.
It felt like falling, walking, speaking, 
all at the same time; as in a film
we'd seen before where we waited
in vain for the punchline.