One-Room Flat

One-Room Flat

Later, I find
bread crumbs in the toaster—
twenty-six years
in letters appear long.

Floorboards
squeak like mice underfoot.
The wastebasket
is half-full of syringes.

I remember
he liked peanut
butter, Botero women,
and standing right where
the 9.43 bus stopped.

He called
while I was in Santa Monica.
He wouldn't
say where he was.

Here his calendar
hangs on to February.
I look closer
and find dust on the nail.