After dinner, my mother folds a napkin
into a square smaller than her palm
and places it in a nearby drawer.

Outside, the neighbor's dog howls
at a moon it never could reach, and
at the night that moves too quickly.

My father left his glasses
beside the blue bowl of oranges,
his silver watch by the ash tray. 

I think of all the things we keep
without understanding why:

the chipped cup from the first apartment,
the cardigan no one wears anymore,
the keys that open nothing.

By tomorrow, the room will look untouched.

But the chair will be pulled out slightly,
as if someone has just stood up
and will return before the tea gets cold.