The Acknowledgments

I reached the end and the spine didn't even crack,

it just went limp, a tired bird in my palms.

And there, tucked against the word 'Fin,' was a list

for 2% milk and cat litter from a store that closed in 2012.

It felt like walking into someone’s house uninvited.

I stared at the thumbprint smudge—chocolate, maybe,

or just engine grease—darkening the final sentence.

Someone else wept or ate or bored themselves to sleep

right here, before the book was sold for fifty cents.

I wanted the ending to be mine, a clean break,

but I’m just sharing space with a ghost who needed eggs.

I closed it quiet, like I was trying not to wake them.