She moves like a widow
through the chaos of boxes
and rolled-up rugs, fatal
remains of what was and is not.
Already missing my initials,
her luggage slumps before the door
waiting to slam our days dead.


I pull it from my finger.
Once it gleamed in a sanctuary
of holy water and incense.
Today I desert it for cash.

“Ya don’t mind singles, do ya, Bud?”
cackles the man who slaps down
one-hundred-thirty-seven dollars.
My pockets bulge green as I walk
in a blur of wedding-white sun,
wishing a road could take me home.