Some days I leave the grocery story and walk
of our old house without thinking. Even the strange
dog waiting at the window seems to recognize me
of trying my key at the lock.
You were a thread of a cobweb I breathed in and couldn’t
swallow, couldn’t cough up. All our boxed-up letters
can’t fathom the indifference
of the garbage truck, hoisting
the cans like an aging bodybuilder.
Hell is a country where it rains year round
and you must spend all day writing postcards
to relatives you don’t love. Today, you write,
And wasn’t it the rain that caught you
rushing between buildings, someone else’s jacket
on your back, face turned
away, as if to avoid a camera? I wasn’t
there to see it, but I imagine all the things
you never told me as a line of footprints
bunches of roses at me, cheering
for an encore. So here is my aria: a dirt
road, seven beers, the headlights
Some day, one of the dark shapes wandering
across the frozen lake will turn out
to be you. I can already hear you at the door