Box the crates of rejection letters,
and stash them in the drip line.
Ball up the sticky notes and stuff them
in your cheeks. Shred the divorce papers,
the receipts from houses ago.
Stop at the top of the stairs by
her meaty fist, years since you
circled it with your fingers;
years, as the days grow shorter still.
The bohemians are here.
(Originally published as “Spring Cleaning,” in The Year of Our Beautiful Exile, Gaspereau Press 2015)
