When she goes away, you move in.
Unwelcome house guest who takes over.
Removing the invisible dust covers
from the furniture, filling the fridge with stale food,
leaving empty beer cans lying around, wet towels
on the floor. Hiding keys and credit cards.
Creating a vacuum into which everything
is sucked. Imagination, ambition, energy.
Everything except the garbage. Day succeeds
day like a stifled yawn. The calm before the lull.
You do not make the heart grow fonder
but squeeze it like an anaconda.
When she comes home, you move out.
Ousted, the lull becomes a disinfected whirlwind
that blows through the house. The anaconda
is stunned and slung, along with the gasping cans
and the fridge’s entrails. Order restored.
Good riddance, absence. I’m missing you already.