I have nothing in the cupboard
because there is nothing to leave; No crumpled wrapper, no vain compliment, to idle retort, no half-grown thought, no irritating hangnail.
Only a trying-too-hard policy and a shame-induced dollar.
I have nothing to leave in the cupboard
because I left everything; At my work desk, on the train, in the glove compartment, inside the locket, leaning beside the seat.
Only a memory of forgetting, glancing back, unseeing.
I have nothing, not even a cupboard
because it's just rented space; Nothing to own, nothing to maintain, nothing to repair, nothing to explain.
Only a burnt-out and bitter shell, empty and waiting still.
