You surprised me
when you wheeled a suitcase
out the front door,
calling me a name over your shoulder
before driving off in a cloud of discontent.
Since that occurred,
at least an hour has passed,
and just to give your decision
some historical perspective,
it has been fourteen years since our wedding
and 4 billion years after the appearance of matter.
Yes, you chose to abandon me,
2 billion years after the birth of multicellular life
not to mention 245 million years
since the last dinosaur shook the earth,
and many decades since the invention
of bubble gum, movies, and the fountain pen.
But now I am back in the present,
comforted by the depth of prehistorical time,
leaning against the kitchen sink
and also spinning through infinite space
at an angle of 23.5 degrees
as I examine the details of a rural scene
on the side of this Delft teacup
while waiting for the water to boil
and for you to come back home.
Unless, of course, you are waiting out there
for me to apologize, in which case
you will find yourself all alone at the end
of human time, beholding the tall,
cascading waves of fire, sinkholes of ice,
and that merciless quartet of horsemen
in their scarlet vestments,
who are now wheeling their steeds around
and appear to be galloping furiously in your direction.