April Fox

These are the things
you will leave behind:
a quickly-penned grocery list
shampoo
tomato sauce
lemon juice
eggs

A prom picture, roughly halved
the other piece tossed aside
with your virginity
burnt, perhaps
in some post-adolescent fit
of Pagan forgetting
rituals
unsuccessful, of course
but effective nonetheless

A crayon, carnation blue
her favorite
and she cried when she lost it
unable to color the sky

The bones of a squirrel crushed under your tire

The taste of last night’s whiskey
in another man’s mouth
too long after the sun came up
and you should have been gone

A jar of pennies saved
hidden behind the flour
damp with moths

A telephone bill run up
with long distance calls
to a stranger
on the other side
of the world

A condom discarded in the alley
with a sandwich wrapper
and a cigarette butt
painted with regret
the exact shade of your mother’s
favorite lipstick

A pair of shoes, worn once
to a funeral for someone
you despised

A receipt for gas
and a soft drink
and a single candy bar

A bruise, and the sound of it
echoing

Nothing at all.