Punchline

Now that you're gone, I can begin. To look for you.
Now you could be anywhere — bus stop, bakery,
bookstore. Is that you at the corner of Superior and 10th?
disappearing into Starbucks? in a VW out on 53?

You in a Volkswagen? You in a bookstore? If you were here,
we would laugh and laugh. Once at Target, accidentally,
I saw you, reading lipstick labels instead of Latin,
basket over your arm, face hidden behind a cape of hair.

Why did I turn? I knew what your eyes would see
if they saw me. But I'll always remember the sound
of the door, always it was you, returning, or leaving.
Ghost in the machine. And here is the thing I must say:

I was starting to hope. For leaving. And now that you've
left, I can stop. Hoping. The door can do what a door does,
my heart will be still. There is no ghost. Now I can
leave the porchlight on, and up in my bed, picture it

grinning into the darkness, for hours, like a clown.
At last, a punchline.