Quiet, Futile

The folding chair's tipped over,
Gone.
The wind's ambivalent.
The can of chardonnay
He lightly teased her for
Is on its side
And bleeding wine
Across the patio.
The gate is lightly chinging
Open, close.
He had a hold this time.

While driving home
She hardly moved
As green and yellow swollen haze
Provided passive dull distraction,
Though he did it right.

He thought the world
Indifferent.
He sees too late
It simply presents as emotionless
As it implodes about him.
Mingling with the paper plates
Earlier in the evening,
His efforts stolen by the breeze.

- 10/10/25

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