The day he
picked up
his furniture
the frost had
left the ground
so the builders
in the suburbs
could pour
foundations
for the prefab houses.

It was a Thursday.
Spring was on its way
said the housekeeper.
There were only two of
ten little soldier boys left.
The child was upset
but contained himself.
The bookshelves were dusty
no one had thought of that.
The walls filled up with wounds
as pictures were removed.

We drank a beer
with the removal man.
Outside a woman
walked by
carrying a grocery bag
with leek greens
poking out.

It was a perfectly
normal day.
We were agreeable
and considerate.
The slight boy
walked between us
with grown-up eyes.

Pictures
on a strange wall.
A strange woman
hammers in nails.
A strange man
arrives with new
habits in his suitcase.

The frost let go.
The mittens fell
from the heater.
A man’s back
will tell you more
than he has said
in eighteen years.

Another man and
another woman
ricochet off
the memory.
It was a meaningless day
like what you call
love.

I’ll visit you
sometimes
he said.
There’s no reason to—
it’s not
easy for me either
he said.
The removal man
wiped the foam
from his upper lip.

It was a Thursday
in parentheses.
The brackets around it
have already faded.
Life tastes of ash
and is bearable.