7/30: it isn't as bad as it sounds, i promise.

On the days when she does not come, at least

she sends a note.  More Dear Sweetheart than
Dear John, less rejection letter and more regret

to decline the invitation.  It’s fine, of course; I’m used

to the days without her, go about the apartment

just the same, step over the laundry, occasionally wipe

the dirt off the soles of my feet, don’t even look

at the neglected mop - how is it any of the mop’s business

what I do with my time, anyway?  Because the days

when Joy doesn’t come round are not really days, after all,

are they?  Just extensions of the nights when we both know

I won’t be doing any sleeping.  Here, the trash

I should take down to the street, there,

the sand I shook from my bag after the beach

and never swept up.  Now and then an empty glass

with a faint film in the bottom which I will not wash

before I fill it back up.  Who does Joy

think she is anyway?  How is she so fucking

special that I need her around to get anything done?

Maybe things are better left undone, because who am I

if not a to-do list forever unfinished, a love note

never unfolded, a single woman more comfortable

with Dirt and Despair at the end of the day, who wouldn’t

even know what to do if Joy called.