In the Little Book of Guesses

I’ll make you up from out 
of the living rooms we face, 
equal parts singing gate 

and people we knew once,  
in biographical order.  Equal lengths 

investiture, and the sun came out 
and it was bright in my eyes.  

The room is dark behind 
the flaring particles.  The day 
is twenty years ago 

and Tuesday.  I did not mean 
to leave us there with nothing, 

as I was saying car rides  
for wonderful.  It hardly matters.  Unequal parts 
wanting to mean something 

and frosted glass.  Whose cigarette 
in the plaid ashtray?  

Whose clothes on the coffee table 
as the dog begins to bark?  

The black dog out in whatever yard, 
barking off and on 

the rest of our lives.

From The Little Book of Guesses by John Gallaher. Copyright © 2007 by John Gallaher. Reprinted with permission of Four Way Books.