Oxblood and Static

I spilled the grape juice on the beige rug,

and watched the circle spread into the weave.

It’s the exact shade of the sweater—the shrug

you gave when you told me you had to leave.

I found a single maroon sock today,

stuck to the back of the dryer with a spark.

It’s a lonely, brownish-red piece of the fray,

a bit of old laundry left out in the dark.

I picked a wool thread off my thumb,

a tiny snag of color that used to mean home.

Now the whole house is just quiet and numb,

and the static is all that’s left in the chrome.