The Wall Between Us

The recliner is sitting out in the rain,

beige velvet turning dark and heavy with the wet.

I didn't know your voice, just the sudden strain

of your cough through the drywall, a rhythmic threat.

There’s a rubber band holding a week of menus

to your brass handle, Chinese food and cheap pizza pie.

You never took them in, just left the clues

of a life that didn't need to say goodbye.

Men in blue jumpsuits are tossing out the lamps

and the stacks of magazines you kept by the bed.

The air in the hallway smells like dust and damp,

and I have no words for a person who's dead.