Unspoken Inventory

The pharmacy light hums a flat, yellow note

and the words stay jammed in the back of my throat.

You’re squinting at shades, at the five-dollar kind,

while I’m sorting through ruins I left far behind.

The gallon of milk has a leak at the seam,

cold beads on my skin like a slow-moving dream.

It drips on my shoes as I turn for the door,

leaving the speech on the linoleum floor.