Identification

The sun hits the hallway at half-past four,

lighting the dust and the scuffs on the floor.

I’m wiping the frames where the glass has gone dim,

trying to scrub out the last ghost of him.

Near the bottom corner, a smudge of his hand,

a map of a country I don't understand.

A swirl of skin oil, a whorl of a thumb,

stuck to the surface where I have become

the person who polishes shadows away,

just to find something to do with the day.