• A paler shade of brown on the carpet
    is all that remains
    of the television we bought at Sears
    that Sunday when your mother
    invited us to dinner at the Olive Garden
    to ask, in her silken terrier voice
    about our white day in July.

    You never replied
    just pushed that meatball around your plate
    searching for some unoccupied space
    away from the infringing penne
    and overzealous marinara sauce.

    Now my stereo has fled with my favorite ties
    and I recall that tiny pawn shop,
    where guitars and mirrors hang,
    like orphaned brothers along the walls.
    You felt sorry for them, but couldn’t bring yourself
    to buy something that somebody else had stolen.

    If only I could find a way to sell
    that fiery scent of your hair
    that still lingers and clutches my pillow.
    Give it away to some stranger
    that fancies that sort of thing.
    I guess you beat me to it.

    I will probably just wait a week,
    until your ghost finally finds its way
    out of this empty town
    and I’ll go down to that pawn shop and buy back
    all the things you’ve stolen.