On the 866th day you said you smelt a bushfire
and left.
Slamming the front door
accidentally
(You were never that tough).

And the sound of a lost last chance
rang in my ears.
Louder than sirens.
Louder than bombs.
Louder than The Smiths record I had playing while I cooked us breakfast.

And I watched you walk, calm, down all 36 steps
and drive off, slowing only once
for a cat that refused to get off the road.

Your indicator
blinked
and I kept watching

But the eggs were burning on the stove,
and the toast had popped long ago,
and the smoke alarm started to scream,
like it knew my pain.
I followed
your path through the door
leaving it open
just in case.

And I walked calm
down 36 steps.
I walked calm
to that damn cat on the road.
I picked her up

And carried her home wishing I’d refused to let him through
refused to get off the road
too.

I walked
back
up the steps.
I closed the door behind me.
And I shared my burnt breakfast with my new companion.

Who couldn’t open doors.
Who couldn’t up and leave.

But the eggs were all black and bitter