Inventory

The silence has finally settled into the carpet.

Seven months and the casserole dishes

have all been returned to the neighbors.

I was looking for the extra soap

behind the stack of yellowed towels

when I touched the blue plastic.

The shampoo for his scalp.

The bottle is half-empty, still holding

the shape of his hand.

The plastic is dented where his thumb

used to squeeze, a shallow bowl

of his absence

that fits perfectly in my palm.