For Rocco, Who May Not Get My All Tomorrow As a Direct Result

By the third flight of steps
my feet are cinderblocks.
It's not the friendly load of laundry that's
making it hard to climb any farther.
I don't want to swing that door
open for the first time since
she's taken the rest of her things.
When I do it hits me like
aforementioned masonry.
A good wail in the corner
where her dresser used to be
warrants a call to mom
who in turn blames
my father and the abandonment
issues he's so Christianly left in my lap.
We all have our crosses.
Some drag them too far.

When the pep talk's over
I strip for comfort's sake
and see what looks different
around the apartment. She spared me
some silverware. Stole the rugs.
Left me her two plants; company
I guess. Took both the frying pans.
So much for eggs over-easy this week.
It all seemed so trivial and static before.
Now my new home's a pile of objects
a few of them missing, in need of
replacements. More items for the
Things To Do List.
Great.
Next up: a shower.

There too are voids.
There's an obvious spot where
that bottle of facewash
which neither of us liked due to its
bug repellant odor once sat.
Her razor remains; disposable, like time.
I crank the shower handle as far to the left
as my skin can take it-- not scalding
but damn near close: how she used
to like it once I got out to dry myself.
My body slowly adapts to the temperature
and feels purified by heat. If I can't control
what I'm feeling over the loss of
two-and-a-half, on-and-off years
then at least I can swing that lever
and determine how much steam
is pumped into the room, how hard
the nerves in my skin cells tingle.
What's that Hump said to Sam in
the Casa? "If she can take it, I can take it,"?
The lathering's left to the bare essentials
since it's late enough and Monday's
an early rise. I rinse and blow my nose
down the drain. Part of me's miffed
that my brain doesn't follow.

When I step out
and wipe the fog from the mirror
it's hard to avoid a red-faced laugh.
Beneath the permanent wool sweater
afflicting my awkward form
there hides a boiled lobster
too stubborn and desperate
to turn down the heat.

But really, I laughed.
I have to.
My plants need carbon dioxide.