1 poem

Erin Jamieson

Soon We Will Dine

soon we will 
dine in dusty
rooms, ink
bleeds from
yellowing maps

our lives incinerated 
just ours begun:
you, down to your
last dollar, nursing
an old fashioned

me, collecting 
your dollar
to keep my
lights on 

your wrinkled
suit we bought
at a thrift store
that’s been 
torn down

I know you feel
the emptiness 
of our home 
the trips we 
never took
children we
never had 

soon is both
too soon and
two decades
too late