In every empty chair

Sunbleached playskool plastic,
rubber balls and safety swings-
overturned trikes and deflated
pool toys, covered by the fallen leaves.
Cobwebs coating the rounded corners,
a little red wagon by the shed,
strollers folded by the back-door,
and a tiny sandal without it's mate.
The ghostly laugh of Summer,
carried on the October wind.
The cruel specter of Happiness,
that sits in every empty chair.

There are many empty chairs, now.

Whole rooms are filled up with absence.
They are so crowded with those not present,
that you cannot squeeze into them-
and so they go avoided, growing emptier.
But the poisonous quiet-
that can never be avoided.
There is such a din of absent
voices that one cannot hear
oneself thinking. So many
silent echos- who knew there
would be so many?
No one uses the dining-room
table, for those empty highchairs
are to dangerously near... and
even after they are gone- the
empty spots where they were
will still be there.
Even if they come back for
everything, even if they
pack every rubber ball and
bottle of baby shampoo
into that tiny car
and drive it away-
the emptiness will remain.