Residual

The broom pulls a cloud from the concrete,

a fine, yellow silt of what we didn't finish.

It smells of pine and the way you used to stand,

blocking the light from the side door.

The workbench is bare,

stripped of the vices and the rusted jars.

A yellow drift of fine grit

has settled into the treads of my work boots.

It’s a dry, soft weight.

I’m taking the floor of this place with me,

one step at a time.