because even though
I cannot afford it,
the rent must be paid.
It is a small task
of grade-school arithmetic,
stamps and a pen that works,
two minutes at the desk.
The check I write is kin
to those that paid
for vacations, groceries, doctors,
your every newest hairdo.
The check I write
still bears your name
next to mine, and an address
where I no longer live.
The check is institutional green,
formal as our conversations.
It wants to know the only thing
that matters now: how much for whom?
Paying the rent, I write hurriedly
like someone checking into
a sleazy motel or signing
a false confession.
away from you, a letting
and a letting go, another month
in the nowhere of always.