by Claudia Gary
Container of my old life,
you’re emptied, vacuumed, scrubbed out. I survey
each closet, crevice: bas-relief
in white, devoid of what I’ve hauled away.
Eviscerated to sell,
neutered, embalmed, you make me grieve, but I’m
too busy. Easier now to dwell
on commerce as I stand here one last time.
The buyer will walk through
your rooms and corridors, then sign a sheaf
of papers. Look how fresh and new
you seem. Think how he’ll fill you with his life.