After the Death of His Twin
—for John Fuller, age 80
The solo creak of his Naugahyde chair.
The excess of fruit broadcasting its ripeness.
In the closet, twice the needed pants and shirts, twice the needed gaping shoes, worn at the heel.
The nervous voice of his landlord, trying to remember which one passed.
The sniff and yip of the dog, double-checking under the table.
The mockery of the swollen garden.
The sports section left folded with the classifieds.
His unspoken opinion of the news story about welfare mothers.
The uselessness of the second bookmark pressed into the novel.
In front of the TV, half the snoring noise to waken him to his started insistence, “I wasn’t…”
The other narrow bed, tightly tucked.
The hearing aid left on the end table for the first time.
In the bathroom mirror, only two hips, two nipples, one penis.
The surprising regularity of his heartbeat.