Clearance

The landlord says it's time to go.

I’m stacking boxes by the door,

moving through the grease

and the slow accumulation on the floor.

I found a jar of rusted screws,

all different heads and different lengths,

bottom-heavy with a layer of black soot

from a man who’d lost his grip.

The Emerson radio caught a signal,

a woman talking about rain in Des Moines.

Static filled the gaps like gravel.

I wiped my hands on an oily rag

and left the radio singing to the empty rafters.