Cleaning Day

We sat on her bed.
Praying for you.
She said, "I don't have tears
anymore."

We've grown hard--calloused.
And we thought of you.

We threw out beef broth,
a rotting tomato, lettuce, Couscous,
and cheese. The end pieces of eight grain bread,
leftovers from a week ago, hardened pork,
brown bananas, frozen bananas, lots of bananas
for your bread you never baked.
Some baked beans,
a withered onion, a half eaten apple,
soured milk. And we thought of you.

The trash bags carried heavy.
One broke open as we plodded
to the dumpster. Old yogurt
spilling on my dark blue jean leg.
I noticed it slowly draining
to my bare toes. It squished between.
Finally, we threw it all out with other peoples'
rotting garbage. And we thought of you.

I cleaned the scum off the floor on Saturday.
Off the bathtub and the toilet too.
I sprayed Febreeze on the sofa and the chair--
over and over and over again. The bottle
spilled on the floor. And I thought of you.

The apartment is clean now.
The sunshine streaming in
on made beds and shiny tiles.
No dishes in the sink and no
smears on the mirrors.

We laugh, we talk,
and sometimes we think of you.
But it won't be long.
I promise. I'm sure of this:
It'll slowly stop.
No thinking of you.