Tossed with salt, the pavement

blues up like a vein in the wrist.
The house wears a hairdresser’s cut—
newspaper cancelled, mail re-routed, lights

timed to follow her make-believe journey—
kitchen to bedroom, bedroom to bath,
somnolent, blank as Ambien.
The furniture sits as was left, chairs pushed

to the Formica table, digital photos
flashing smiles below the clock, the television
clicking on at six, off at ten—

the philodendron watered.