Inventory of What Was in Our Rented House

there were rooms
kitchen. two bedrooms. a tiny bathroom
that the faucet would drip out of
for all of june.

we never called about it.

the light
came in from the west at 4 pm and lay across the floor.
i know what it looked like
i refuse to tell you.

one more room.
the office. boxes we didn’t open. a chair. a lamp.
no bulb.
we told ourselves every night that august

tomorrow we would.

tomorrow is the word that keeps the door

closed.

“look at that light. “
“have you called about the faucet yet. “
“leave it. . it’s getting late.”
“goodnight. “

she would sit by the west window.
the chair still looks towards the outside.

(she’s not in this poem)
(she’s not in this poem)
(she’s not in this poem)
(she’s not in thi

we rented for a year.

we left after 11 months and a week.

it’s close enough to a year.

we lived there long enough to call it a year.

long enough to call it ours.

long enough to just leave.

we left

the dripping faucet.

the lamp without a bulb.

a word.

you could argue