An Empty Bulmer’s Bottle
all I can think to do is write
about things I see scattered
around the flat like the dead
stem and leaves on the snake plant
you gave me after grape week,
the tailless little bunny figure
I found during my last hike,
which I got for you but that you left
here, without a penchant for trinkets,
a red bulb laying next to a deck
of tarot that you brought over once
during the early days of sexy nights.
this is just a collection of stuff, really, I think.
but that’s not exactly true, I realize
as I write around the flat and describe the stories
that are associated with each object,
the small striped shells on the top of the bookshelf,
the tiny meditation bell on the coffee table,
even the bread knife in the knife drawer
in the kitchen where the light
above the stove has suddenly burnt out.
it’s not just about you, of course.
as I look around I see all the stories
from different phases of my life,
from different girlfriends, friends,
moments when I thought I was
going to read Dickinson’s collected work
so I started to print the damn thing out
at work once but the ink ran out
at page three hundred of four hundred
and now the unbounded stack of poems
sits in a transparent inbox tray under a stack
of unused flattened paper globe shaped lanterns,
a folded yellow paper bag, and a small box
in which the hooks for the bamboo hanging
from my ceiling arrived.
all of this is to say I am old, so old
that I can look around and see myself
in all the meaningless collections of things
littered all around the flat, things
that I will never pick up and use
like I thought I would when I got them,
parts of myself just collecting dust,
that should just be tossed in the rubbish
bin, really. I stare at an empty Bulmer’s bottle
on the coffee table, that I’ve neglected
to toss, think about walking with you
down Karl-Kunger Straße towards my flat,
as you compliment window displays
in the vintage store on the corner,
on a warm June Summer night, knowing
we’re going to jump into bed together
later, like we always do, as I slowly draw
on the bottle, as we stop and stand there.