In the windows of the wreck 
of the house I watch 
the sun set. No, not wreck

so much as shell. I hold it 
to my ear to hear the waves 
I now know are my pulse.

I am stood on the porch where 
we sat on summer nights with 
the cars and the crickets, a glass 

of whiskey in your hand, 
watching the sun set 
like it has now.

The blinds are down, the rooms 
empty, our furniture long since 
gone. We took the chairs and tables 

away when we left, 
but left the bed I’d outgrown
out back in bits for firewood.

The front door’s locked, 
the mailbox and the iron gate 
red with rust, the blue of the wood

flaking off, 
fading out, 
waiting for sunrise.