Emptying the night stand
on her side of the bed
into a box again
was the easy part.
Her last words my way:
"Remember what you want."
I didn't give the same privilege.
Her car was running
in the driveway
when I dropped off
that cardboard
I'd sprayed with the cologne
I've worn since 14.
The plan was paint-by-number
but I wasn't ready
for the little black dog
that always followed me
standing at the storm door
shaking without barking
her head cocked in perplexion:
staring
staring
at what we'll never know.
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