Apart from the dust,
things are more or less
just as she left them.
Towels abandoned neatly,
pleading to be put away.
A few retired ashtrays,
bereft in their redundancies.
Chocolates in the freezer,
glacial since August,
or whenever
it was the ice age began.
Letters on the counter,
Bourbon in the cupboard —
Cheers, Mother.
Upstairs, clothes are expecting me,
dressed specially in her essence.
In her robe, where I bury my face,
there's a trace of it left.
Once I put it on,
it's gone for good.