I open the cupboards; the cupboards are empty,
empty of everything but dust things
and spider web things and dish things.
I search under the couch, peer deep into
a dark gloom, brush aside stray pennies
that seem to be looking for a home.
I open the refrigerator, push aside the ketchup,
the mayonnaise, pull out last night’s take-home,
open it up—half eaten salmon.
On the dining room table, bills sit outside of
envelopes, magazines half read, the radio
tuned to your station, though it doesn’t play.
In the bathroom the towel still damp from a final
shower, the sheets rumpled from last night,
the dog, she sleeps contently in the dining room,
not aware of what has been lost.