Personal Effects

Friday is a wall I can't climb.

The lawyer wants the keys by noon,

as if grief has a punch-clock.

I’m clearing out the mirrored cabinet,

the jars of ointment and the rusted razors.

There’s a stick of deodorant, half-gone.

A single gray hair is caught in the wax,

curled like a question mark I missed.

My own thumb fits the dent in the plastic cap,

holding the ghost of a morning routine

that ended mid-swipe.