What I Didn't Wash

She left three days ago. The job thing

sorted itself, or not — one text from the train.

This morning I went to strip the guest bed,

doing the round: the cover, the plain

pillowcase last. I lifted it and stopped.

Her shampoo — fake coconut, that sweet

synthetic trying — still in the cotton.

I stood there holding it. Then, neat

and without deciding, set it back.

The pillow still dented where she'd been.

I pulled the door. I didn't smooth it.

The hall. The three days in between.