Simple Poem

I remember when you were writing your simple poems

the way the light caught you, across the kitchen, sunbeam

and a bar from the Formica countertop that would burn

at your hair, brow creased in that way you had/have,

the frown of concentration, the lines

that once were laughter than became worry

slender fingers, their ragged nails coated in chipped paint

the slightly-chewed blue ballpoint pen,

tap tap tapping against the page

as though the motion could call into emotion

something that wasn’t there;

I am still writing a simple poem

you are still tap tap tapping against the empty air