I have been through all she left behind.
The plays of Sophocles, her silver rings
& fishbone combs. I have glistened her clamshell
radio, caked on her 48 hour apricot deodorant.
It doesn't seem like she's dating anyone,
but there is a postcard written in a dark
angry scrawl. An unemployed or unemployable
Czechoslovakian trombone player.
And what about this bed I'll be sleeping on?
I wonder how many drunken souls have
slithered in and out of it.
I flop down on it, wrap myself in goose down.
My fortieth birthday. No job, no family,
no plan. I have two months to hang around
this flat until she comes back.
Two months to develop some kind of plan
& get human for once. Meanwhile,
there's a poisonous doll's eye plant growing
out of my skull, pumpkin spice candles
to bleed & a poem waiting to write me.
M.P. Powers lives in Berlin, Germany. His poems have been published in The New York Quarterly, Rosebud, Existere, Main Street Rag, Third Wednesday, A Cappella Zoo and many other fine places. More info here: http://www.nyqpoets.net/poet/mppowers