Hooked
He took almost everything he brought to
Or ever bought in nine years
It's hard to remember what is whose.
He may have forgotten the cactus in the den
with its big pulpy stalk,
Was the first gift he sent me,
The one that fell on the receptionist at the office,
Leaking a white ooze from its injury,
And she a red one from hers,
because he took it.
And my birthday lamp, too.
He took it.
I'm liquidating what's left,
and even though I love that maple table,
I'll have to let it go.
There won't be room in my smaller place.
I want to press my cheek against its cool shiny
Smoothness and smell the wood one last time,
But my daughter already feels guilty enough
For the fight they had
The final one, the reason she thinks he left.
So Goodbye, I say, to each piece of the puzzle,
Unraveling the years like so much yarn.
Stepping out now into uncertainty,
I'm hoping the universe opens up to
Fill this void with something other
Than what I have filled it with too quickly in the past.
That's how they get you, you know
With that great wonderful hook.
Copyright © Emerson Adkins | Year Posted 2012
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