His friend came on a Thursday afternoon.
He stood in the bedroom doorway
before opening the closet.
The shirts were crowded together politely,
their sleeves touching in the dimness.
“I’ll just take what can be used,”
the friend said softly to no one.
A blue sweater, hearing this,
seemed to stiffen slightly on its hanger.
The coat remembered cold evenings,
a movie theater once,
rainwater drying slowly
on his shoulders.
The trousers believed
he had simply gone somewhere rugged —
the highlands of Guatemala, perhaps —
and that he would return
tired,
emptying his pockets onto the dresser
in the familiar way.
The white shirts clung
to their hangers,
certain there remained ahead of them
some wedding,
perhaps a quiet Sunday at the pub,
for which they must stay ready.
The old brown jacket suspected something.
From inside a drawer,
the socks whispered among themselves.
“Is he traveling?”
“Will we be packed?”
The friend carried them downstairs
in black garbage bags.
At the curb, he paused.
Beyond the edge of town,
the dump spread out beneath
a pale afternoon sky:
A sock filled slightly with wind
and dragged slowly
through the dirt.
