Final Inventory

The landlord’s pacing out on the porch,

huffing about the scent of smoke in the rug.

I’ve spent the morning acting like a torch,

stripping the life out with a heavy tug.

I found a crossword half-done on the chair,

the pen still clipped inside a seven-down.

It’s mostly vowels and an empty stare,

the quietest remains of being in town.

The encyclopedias go in the plastic bag.

They’re heavy as a body, slumped and grey.

The black ties of the liner start to sag

beneath the weight of all he had to say.