The wind whispers sounds through
a keyhole like someone sympathizing
with his troubles or mocking him;
one eye catches that breeze
as it searches the room,
unable to touch the woman
sobbing at her dresser.
Glass shards on the floor
from a picture flunk far
across the room,
the corner of a wedding photograph
lying faced down;
he can see the date when
it was taken; the pencil lines say
1995 is fading, blurred by too much handling
before it was imprisoned in a frame,
the children’s present for their anniversary.
It was his fault, not locking the door.
He had the key in, but he forgot to turn it.
She walked in, finding him and his secretary
on the guestroom bed, doing stuff
she refused him last evening.
Finally, he hears creak of a chair, he sees
her face for a moment (guilt stabs
his chest for moment before he could
put up a shield of justifications)
as she comes to the door. She inserts
a key into the keyhole, not turning it
just letting it sit there, so that
not even his eyes can touch her again.