I've never been very good at being alone.

Pushing in the back door
with a gust of December wind
I'm picking up my packages
and walking through the doorway
into an empty apartment
Faint neon commercial glow
Lights the place like
after hours.

And I put down my bags at my room.

There's no need to
turn the light on
to see the disarray.

The decimation of last night
has pulled the sheets off the mattress
clothes scattered on the floor
and papers on the desktop
(like the empty leaves of some
non-existent court recorder
who transcribed our struggles last night)
CDs are everywhere
and jackets . . .

(I found your bra
beneath the emergency brake of my car)

And I want so much
to call you and apologize
to spill out my dismay

at the mess that's scattered everywhere
without the lights on
in my room
But
I know it's late
and you've probably
already
cried yourself to sleep.