when it happened so sudden a sharp pain
like a bandaid being ripped off no worse
a stab wound (& should we take out the blade?
would it be better to leave it in or worse?)
she was thinking how she wished he'd order it
somehow categorize all those faces
those people with lives and lovers and pets
who also happened to put out albums
how they should go in some sort of order
and not lie around the apartment stacked up in piles
(don't they get wrecked that way? it doesn't matter now;
everything's wrecked) she was thinking
about this haphazard collection of songs from
all of those people when the letter
the scrap of paper announcing his departure
sat clenched in her hands, opened at last
to a few apologetic words and a cleared out closet
to a few apologetic words and a cleared out closet
and all these records just lying around.
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