Vestibule

The landlord's thumb smudged the brass

as he slid the new name into the slot.

D. Miller is gone, a ghost behind glass,

or maybe he wasn't much of a lot.

I watched his circulars yellow and curl

on the radiator's radiator ribs for years.

Coupons for pizza, a lifestyle unfurl

in grocery ads no one ever nears.

Now there’s a sticker, blank and too white,

covering the space where a man used to stay.

We lived ten feet apart in the quiet of night

and had absolutely nothing to say.