The Weight of the Cardboard Box

The landlord gave me seventy-two hours

to erase the life that happened in 4B.

I’ve spent the morning tossing dried flowers

and things that no one would want for free.

I found a jar of mustard in the door

of the fridge, dated three months from now.

It’s a future he isn't here for anymore,

a contract broken without a vow.

The shoes are piled by the front hallway,

mismatched heels and a loafer with a tear.

They look like they have something to say

about the feet that are no longer there.