Refuse

The dresser has a gap now,

like a tooth that’s been pulled.

I don’t really know how

the anger finally lulled,

but I’m out by the side of the house

with my hands in the kitchen bag.

I’m quiet as a thieving mouse

among the rinds and the rag.

The coffee grounds are caked and wet

on the glass I broke in the bin.

I haven’t quite finished it yet—

digging for what I threw in.

The orange peels smell like a ghost

of the morning we actually talked.

I’m holding the thing I hate most

while the neighbor's dog is walked.