The Falling Down

For difficult times.

The Falling Down

The knives and forks
are crossed on the plates
in the kitchen,

two used cups sit
quietly on the coffee table
by the sofa,

the pots and pans
we used last night swim
in a pool of cold water.

It’s mid-afternoon,
the rain lashes
at the windows,
and outside the birch
tree swings wildly
in the wind.

The bedroom upstairs
is uneasily clean;
the drawers pushed-to
and you’re washed
clothes are absent
from that space
on top of the bedside cabinet.

I look outside,
out over those other
houses and think
of you wandering home,
wrapped in plastic,
bags on your back
and banging
against your hip
in that vicious
falling-down.

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