The Pole and the Empty Coat

The field stretches flat, grass pale green against the gravel shoulder. I stop beside the telephone pole; its base is damp and smells of copper. A coat hangs on a hook affixed to the pole, heavy wool, the colour of dry oak. It belongs to someone who will arrive soon. I walk toward the house where the paint flakes in strips of teal and yellow. Inside, the ache arrives, a pressure behind the ribs that is not my own. I turn the corner, leaving the parlor doorway. The room beyond the threshold remains lit, still holding the faint sound of silverware tapping on glass. It continues, empty of me. I walk across the polished wood floor, and the scent of burnt sugar drifts from a closed cupboard.