A cold front moved in
just before my wife moved out.
It was a pain in the ass, really.
The front door was ajar,
letting all the heat out,
like I’m made of money.
I watched her cousin and her brother
struggle to get the couch out.
I could have offered to help
but I had liked that couch.
I sat in the broken recliner,
which was mine to keep,
and I grimly, silently watched TV.
Her cousin and her brother
weren’t sure whether to greet or ignore,
whether to sympathize or shun.
So I stared at the news.
The weatherman pointed at a map
and made some empty promises.
Jane, as usual, was busy, busy, busy,
always on the phone then.
Talking to her sister, who hated me,
and her girlfriends, who hated me too,
and some leasing manager
about her new place
and her clients
and that boss she was sleeping with.
I helped her box up some stuff in the basement one night.
A chilly dampness hung in the air.
I found some silly toy I had bought her when we were dating
and wanted to laugh about it,
but it didn’t feel right,
so I tossed it in one of the boxes and taped it up.
How long does it take for a woman to leave a man, anyway?
It seemed like months, even after I had stopped begging her to stay.
I was tired of feeling like the old rug in the kitchen:
faded, stained, walked on.
The clouds finally broke the day she left.
Felt good to be free, I must admit.
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