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 25th.
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.