Not the Last Goodbye

Hat askew, coat open,
purse on one arm, car keys
in hand, she scans the
grocery list and bumps
into the door. She backs up,
kicks it open, steams into
the garage. I hear the car
grumble, cough, then roar.
The hand of the kitchen
clock zip zips from second
to second, and the morning
grows. I retreat to my study,
open and shut drawers, hear
the house empty itself of
voices and rush and stir.
Be careful, I told her,
there are bastards abroad
witless in cars, mind the
cross streets. I did not
say goodbye. But what if
it was goodbye? The thought
so skewered me I did not turn
a page until she returned.