In This City

where women eat alone
at the kitchen sink, I reach
for another mouthful.
Juice slides down my chin.

In this city I searched,
paced the brick
aisles of East End.
You weren't there.
Hollowness sent me home
to this bare refrigerator,
this bag of tangerines.

Today is your birthday.
Are you standing in your kitchen,
listening to the murmur of the radio?
Do you stare at the empty table,
reach up and switch off the voices
to hear mine?
I'm standing in my kitchen.

I'm talking to you.