shot glass
"... brevity is the soul of wit ..."
- William Shakespeare

Ray Cicetti

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Since the Italian Girl Left

he sits alone—an empty city.
Her shawl, thrown on the chair becomes the balcony
where they made love.

Her smile lingers like a mirror, in every room.
Sorrow parades down his street.
His day, consumed with her dark hair.

Like a distant echo, he hears her favorite song.
At the door, her shoes, worn by love's obligations,
his shoes, worn from walking the halls of his grief,

wondering whether longing masquerades as truth.
He holds a long thread of silence, stacks his failures
in a corner so he can kill them off in orderly fashion.