These first few hours are unbearable.

I tried to drive to the lake and sit 

in the yellowing mist of the sun 

going down in the rain and 

listen to Neil Young on the warm 

hood of my car

but now I have returned

to the house because there is nowhere

left to drive

and all of the recyclables in the bin

by the door are yours, along with the

towels and I couldn’t get you to take

the macaroni and cheese with you 

so it's sitting in the cupboard staring 

me down accusingly

I know

I know

but it insists, along with the spot

you cleared in the garden. 

If those plants ever come up,

they will say the same thing

look at me the same awful way

that the ash tray-- empty-- on

the back steps does

I know

I did this 

and I've done it before

and it's easier to blame you for leaving.

The rain tapping on the leaves 

should comfort me but I’ve heard 

too much today

and you are still in motion 

with places left to drive

headlights and wipers beating 

searching for a heart of gold

and I have no idea if I will see you again. 

The dog needs to go out into that rain and 

you are not here to take him

so I will sit in the dusk with the

beetles buzzing up and slamming

themselves into the porch light,

beside the ash tray and imagine

your car pulling back into the drive

you rolling a cigarette with a grin

your legs crossed at the ankle 

a heart of gold

and I will rehash every awful thing I’ve ever said to you