Inventory

The screen is too bright in the dark of the room,

as I scroll through the life that I used to own.

You’re sitting out there in the evening gloom,

in the chair where I sat when I felt less alone.

You’re cutting a steak that looks gray and tough,

with the fork that has tines bent slightly aside.

I left it behind when the packing got rough,

a piece of the silver I couldn't quite hide.

Now she holds the handle I gripped every night,

scraping the plate with a screeching sound.

The moon in the photo is clinical, white,

pinning my shadow right back to the ground.