Spinach souffle left to gel on the counter

fizzy purple soda gone flat next to an unmade bed

pepperoni pizza, napkins from Kum N Go, soppy plates

& fly shit in the soup, crumbling spider carcasses

lining every window sill.

You promised me Paris in June,

Bangkok for our 25^th.

Apparently, you forgot

how I longed for Istanbul.

Ragged mesh, gaping holes—

casements cranked wide to the right,

back door propped open with last year’s hiking boots—

grant entry to a horde of tiny, 6-legged, winged arthropods,

come on in with those compound eyes.

We’d yearned to summit Ypsilon,

settled for Emerald Lake.

I traded Mackinac for the Ring of Kerry,

my Townie Electra for Norwegian fjords.