Love, (Rubbish)

by Amy Soricelli

My closet is filled with you.
Your books with random thoughts underlined
with your yellow/ (very yellow) marker.
You underlined the most random lines and nothing -
(no, nothing)
was quoted anywhere else. It fell on deaf ears your underlined musings -
I could care less how much you cared.

It was less of less - those boots you walked in.
They're in the back buried, like nobody worth remembering; their shiny tips curled-up
in a bad 'stick out your tongue' sort of way.
Single socks are stuffed deep into the right one -
(or the wrong one.)
Your boots are here, you left them.

I came across your hat it sung to me -
its lousy off/key 'down on its luck love me till I die' tune.
It fell at my feet like a broken bird snapping its neglected song into my air
or chirping like they do -  when they're stuck in a cage in some poorly ventilated Bronx apartment
under the El -
(and not near any good food.)

I found your notebooks on the left side deep-in by my winter coat.
You wrote in code (you wrote in code -)
and it didn't make me shake my head and fall down on bended knees...
I did not sit down and think.
How funny to find you so filled in my places-
and how easy you fit into one box.  All of you-
just the one.