Behind the Closed Doors - Mac Gander

Behind the closed doors

The bed is either empty
Or not empty. Soundless.
Behind white doors,
Sometimes it is not empty.
Sunlight makes a trapezoid
Against the slats
Of Venetian blinds.
We liked it in Venice—
We planned to return someday.
That’s over now—I won’t see
Venice again, not with her.
Last night I dreamt that black oil
Floating in a pool of spilled water
Had caught fire, burning
A typewriter and starting
A fire in the fireplace.
In the dream I thought
This is not a dream
And that I had to put the fire out
But the fire kept spreading.
Later that day I learned a friend had died
In a fire. He lived in an old firehouse
That he had turned into a pub.
Now he and the firehouse are gone
And I am still here, empty and not empty.