His Bag

Nine minutes. She didn't cry.

She listed what she packed —

his gray sweatshirt, the charger,

two paperbacks he won't read,

socks.

The suitcase zipped shut

on a bed still made from morning.

Pillow dents already cool.

I recognized that voice.

I used to make it — the flat

relief of someone folding

a man's whole crisis

into a duffel bag

and calling it love.

The difference is

she's still married.

I got out.

She just rearranges the room.