Darren drove through Saskatchewan
and into North Dakota today.
he phoned home.
He didn’t mention what his truck was carrying,
but I’d imagine kitchen cabinets, men’s trousers,
two-ply toilet paper, 52-inch plasma screen televisions,
or, like me, a torch for you.
Lately I’ve been concerned about my imagination—
always getting away from me like
a yappy dog no one bothered to housetrain
and is now pissing all over the carpets
and the upholstery of my brain.
Case in point, I can picture you—
on that carpet,
on that upholstery—doing unmentionable but not unimaginable things.
I will mention that we should ceremonially drown carpet swatches
in merlot in honor of the parlor we’ll never decorate.
We should likewise burn pepper grinders
in honor of the family dinners we will not eat
and the daily grinds we will not succumb to—because
if you asked me I would leave today.
Before we take root. Before
Saskatchewan is no longer attainable and my arm kind of hurts,
so down goes the torch.