When I Leave

a poem by Roger B. Rueda

When the first
living thing
trembled—bare-skinned,
slick with its own
birth—I was there,
not touching,
only waiting.

It blinked at
light like
a question.

I sat beside it
on the warm belly
of the world,
listened to
the first breath
being borrowed.

I’ve always waited.
Beside spores blooming
on old bread,
beside fishermen
sinking into sea
like coins in
a broken pocket.

I watched girls
braid hair
under trees,
and later,
watched the same trees
become crosses.
I held no judgment.
Only time.

When the last
thing lives
its last hour—
whether beetle
or child or
star gone tired
of burning—
I will wait again.

No horn,
no thunder.
Just the scraping
of one chair
against wood,
the dimming
of a single
room lamp.

I will stack
the chairs,
wipe down
the counter,
turn off
the last switch
with the care
of someone
who’s closed
this café
a thousand times
before.

And then,
with keys
in my palm
and quiet
in my bones,

I will lock
the universe
behind me.
And leave.