After You'Ve Gone, The House
Falls deep into disarray; dishes
by Susan Rich
cleansed by the cat's rough tongue -
his whiskers skate along the dinner plate's
gray rim; soon pyramids of underwear
rise above the hallway's long horizon.
Days I stay indoors answering to no one.
Seasons change, change back, unfinished
rooms, half-painted, hold no door frames.
Light bulbs die, the wood stove's lacking fire;
some days you call, the voices overlap
trapped along a wire: hello / good-bye/ hell hole.
The lettuce leaves and worm bin mock desire.