shoebox

There is so much missing right now
the keys to my old room, the burnt frying pan
the ash filled sheets of bed between our legs
the too small a bathroom and the smaller the door
the withered lizards through day and night
sometimes hiding sometimes out there
out here under my favorite blue bulb, red bulb
the uncovered underwears
the moist smell of never washed clothes
and those slip sliding smoke rings
those papers, newspapers, toilet papers
curling, burnt rolling papers
the fear of sitting under the roofs of skyscrapers
now are here with the words
that read themselves over written on
the notes of
groceries
house deposits
bills
time
and poetry.