Inventory of Absence

The locksmith’s drill is biting the frame,

removing the latch and removing the name.

The man in 4C left a gap in the air,

a ghost in a jacket with nothing to spare.

I look through the door at the dust and the grit,

at the square on the floor where a sofa would sit.

The carpet is plush where the sun didn't reach,

like a secret the landlord is trying to bleach.

I don't want the silence of six feet of pine,

just to step out of this skin that is mine.

To leave the keys hanging, to leave the bill paid,

and vanish like salt in a glass in the shade.