Inventory

The air in here has a physical weight,

like it hasn't been breathed in a hundred years.

I took the calendar down from the kitchen wall

and found a pale, clean rectangle of paper

where the sun never had a chance to yellow the ink.

In the pantry, a bag of Gold Medal flour

is folded over twice and held with a plastic clip.

They were halfway through a grocery list

and a Tuesday they expected to finish.

I shouldn't be the one touching their spoons.

I shouldn't be deciding which of these boxes

gets to go to the curb and which gets to stay

in the trunk of my car like a stowaway.