I’m wading into a culvert under the road
where a family of raccoons is living. I am
the wrung-out dish towel left to dry on the railing.
Or I’m the wizened apple on the ugliest
tree in this orchard, worm-eaten, still hanging on.
And the sports page drenched on your patio table
once the sky opens. I’m cereal left too long
in the milk, abandoned in somebody’s kitchen.
I’m that lover whose name you forgot before you
had finished buttoning your shirt and I’m the button
ripped off half an hour ago that rolled under
the bed. The hotel maid will not find me. I am
nothing if not interchangeable. Wish me luck.
You’ll find me around the next corner, not weeping.
Image by whiterabbitart
Molly Fisk is a poet, essayist, and life coach living in the Sierra foothills of Northern California. She’s won grants from the National Endowment for the Arts, the California Arts Council, and the Corporation for Public Broadcasting. Her most recent book of poems is The More Difficult Beauty (2010).