A Poym*

*This is how my southern friend Kate pronounces "poem."

I was cleaning my room today -- like, a lot, really extensively -- and found about four nearly finished crossword puzzles under my bed and I thought about this poem that I wrote for a class in the spring of 2004.

I save most everything I've ever written, but I rarely reread things because I know I'll never achieve the same sense of satisfaction I had during the very second I knew I was finished writing. What's that Dorothy Parker quote that everyone loves? "I hate writing. I love having written." I think that's it...

Anyway, I reread this poem and I still really like it nearly three years later, so I decided to post it. Here you go:

How You Will Leave

In fifty-nine days or so
you will be gone and
it will be empty.

Days before,
you will move your bed away from the wall
and sweep up a pile of dust that includes: a newspaper
article sent by your mother,
an unfinished crossword puzzle,
three pens,
and the earring that you lost the night you
drank too much champagne.

Now, your books sit on their shelves, unalphabetized;
it seems you haven't had the time
in all the weeks and months to
move Chabon to the left of Irving
and Irving to the right of Atwood.

The middle pillow from the couch is gone;
you tuck your knees in its spot when you nap
in the afternoon as soap operas squawk through
the speakers of the dusty television.

Soon, you
will try to eat what's left in the pantry--
things that your mother told you to buy,
like a box mix for potatoes au gratin.

You will take the cushions and pillows from the couch before
you bump it down three flights of stairs,
wondering how you got it up there.
And you will fold up the old afghan,
donated by your grandmother,
that tangled in your legs when you lazed and
watched late night talk shows.

In fifty-nine days or so
you will be gone
and it will be empty:
       The place where your bed met the wall,
       an open mouth,
       hungry for another lost earring.