At Sea
Feb 10 2009


When the service is over
the invitations and notes
console you, of course;
but you’d rather decline.
And the black suit and tie
are swiftly put to one side
on a plain wire hanger
— sure you’ll need them again
in the fullness of time.

You run out of vases,
improvising numbly
with mismatched jugs and decanters.
Until the stagnant water
has almost gone dry,
and transparent glass
turned green with slime.
But wilted flowers are easy,
you simply toss them aside
dripping all the way out the door.

It’s her closet that’s hard —
the clothes she touched
she wore and loved,
which you can’t yet bear to open.
Out of sight, out of mind.

But the hardest part
is standing at the door
staring at the bed you shared,
nicely made
neatly tucked,
which it hardly ever was.
Because you know
you’ll never sleep in it again.

It holds her scent,
the mattress remembers her shape.
And anyway
how could you sleep
in all that space?
Lying in the middle
like a man at sea
— an open lifeboat
with no way home.

You’ll sell it, eventually
you promise
tossing and turning on the couch,
the ghostly glow of the clock
turning you green.
Must be the flowers
you sniff,
when your eyes won’t stop.