Poem of 2016-0124: Scrap of paper left in Booth 5

This room wears your face.

These sheets still bear your smell.

All your dotted lines always led to broken bottles

Shattered across the kitchen floor.

The smoke detectors have all been disconnected.

The glass now, being swept into this dustpan,

Is the only sound in this place,

Now that you are no longer here.

But this house still wears your face,

The sofa still bears your smell.

I was thinking about the people I grew up with in my home state, where it always seemed like love was just a struggle to keep the lights on and a fresh pack of cigarettes handy.

I do not know if the person to whom the narrator is speaking is gone because she (or he) has been arrested or has committed suicide.   That's for you, the reader, to decide.   Let me know when you figure it out.

MR

2016-0124