#100

Human in an Empty Apartment
Variaton on a Polish Theme

Die--you can't do that to me.
Since what would I do
in an empty apartment?
Leaving means having to
turn the key again.
("Homes are so sad," he said.
"They always stay the
way they're left.")

Would I fix the rug?
It used to be beautiful,
before you clawed it into a
landscape of wool, ending
each episode with a guilty
race down the hall and a
crash against the bathtub
that left no room for
further consequence.

Would I wash away your hairs--
tweeze them out from the cracks
in the floors, where they took root
after your luscious cleaning sessions?
(You always seemed so gentle then,
but weren't, of course. "What!" you'd
toss at me whenever I stared.)

Memories are such paltry substitutes
for life, after loss.

And on nights when I cry,
would I wait beneath covers
for your groan of effort
and careful landing
and quiet attempts
to make the bed still?

Not for long. I'd replace you with
someone else. Someone like you,
but not really.

How exhausting newness is.

Strange that you mean so much
when you never told me shit
and doled out affection
like you only had
a moment to spare.
_____
Silliness from the archive. I saw a cat today that reminded me of my old beast, who left me, no doubt embittered, just after Maisie was born.