Droppings

just inside
the sage-green door
you’re there             not there
                                        odd
           shadows           disquieting

here’s the razor-sharp knife
                                you know
to brace the steel & feel for nicks

nuanced    so faint one must
intuit their absence

                      we pressed
the perfect crust into the fluted pan
baked the perfect pie imperfectly

listened to the errant boombox
you’ve tuned

it drifted band to band
now ballpoint lines on masking tape mark
music      news
the game of find it keep it
                      no more chance

                      no more chants
drift past my breakfast toast now

                              . . . can’t travel
                              away from you

                              rolling pine cone

                              each time I go to leave
                              my shoes hide
                              in your dreams

& in the pantry
under the green glass bottle of Vinho Verde
resting sideways on the shelf

under the sagging paper bag of tortillas
behind the cracked plastic bucket     (useless now)
                     traces of a mouse

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