He wants your madness
but at a safe distance,
like spending the night
on weekends.

Seven years now,
and no proposal
on the horizon.
That sun has set.

You’re not getting
what you hoped
out of this life,
no matter how
you squeeze and wring
that cloth.

Not even working two jobs,
buying a new car,
and the house next door,
rented to Bay Area refugees
at inflated prices
is making it happen.

So the hole gets filled
with clothes and shoes
still tagged a year later,
perfume and jewelry never worn,
dishes that won't fit
in the cupboard,
furniture that won’t fit
in the house,
but sits in the garage
thick with dust,
alongside piles of hardware
for half finished,
abandoned projects.

Jungles of potted plants and flowers
thirst in the backyard,
scorched by the summer sun.

Your housemates see
the yard long
credit card receipts
on the kitchen counter
or the coffee table,
and wonder
about the sudden rent increase
you forced upon them.

They smile
and walk tiptoe
when you’re around,
groan silently when you ask,
“Can you guys help me
carry this thing inside?”