by Haley Walsh
You were an apartment building with all the lights on.
I slowed down the car to stare through you,
to know what life happened in you
when I wasn’t invited around.
But in all honesty,
it was just a waste of energy
(in many ways).
You knew I loved poetry
and you had the nerve to have a Roman nose
and wear a leather jacket.
And to leave me.
And when the surgeon sat me down
I smiled real sweet and excused myself real polite
and sobbed to your answering machine
and I tell myself that you were just afraid
because I’m always the one to tell you everything
would be okay,
but maybe you just didn’t care.
Now I’m the landlord banging on your door every night.
You owe me.
And if you can’t pay me,
at least turn off the damn lights.