I found a room
through the classifieds,
down the street
in a clapboard house
not far from my job.
I met Dale the landlord
on my lunch hour.
He led me up a wind
of three flights of stairs.
“It’s partially furnished,” he said
“Take a look.”
Dale caught his breath and
opened a ragged door
onto a combo room and kitchen,
a dresser and single bed
tucked in an alcove.
“I’ll take it.”
I handed Dale an envelope
filled with the $1s and $5s
I had skimmed for a year
from my paychecks.
“Cash is good,” Dale said.
“You’re set now.”
After work,
Mike picked me up,
parking close to see me
coming out.
“Who’d you talk to today?”
He cranked up the volume
on “You’re Cold as Ice”
and ground out his cigarette.
“You talked to that Joe guy,
didn’t you,” he said.
“I can tell by that look on your face.”
Mike sped back to the trailer
and walked in ahead of me.
When I came in,
he was combing his hair
and retucking his shirt.
“You know what?” he said.
“Forget dinner.
I’m leaving.”
He looked in a tiny mirror
and checked his teeth.
“Well good then,” I said.
“Because I’m leaving, too.
I got a new place.”
Mike’s face tightened.
“Yeah, right,” he said.
“Tell me another.”
I said nothing.
He grabbed a dirty plate
and threw it.
“OK bitch,” he said.
“I’ll help get you started.”
Ransacking the closet,
Mike heaved my clothes,
out the door.
He dumped a drawer
of underwear and socks
onto the pile,
and pitched my shoes
like baseballs.
“I want you gone,” he said.
“Before I get back.”
Mike stomped out
and kicked up the pile.
He revved the car
and fishtailed onto the road.
I waited a few minutes
then jammed what I could
into a black garbage bag.
I wrapped a cat figurine
and a soapstone jewelry box
in a dish towel,
and grabbed a few
of my old books.
I caught the last bus
into the city,
sitting with the bag
between my legs.
Resting my head on the window,
I watched the stream
of cinder block shops
and boarded up retail,
dinging the bell
for the bus to stop
when a tiny skyline
joined the scatter.
“Take care now,” the driver said.
I thanked him
and squeezed the bag
out and onto the curb.
As the bus pulled away,
a little boy pressed his face
to the glass and stared.
The bag was torn
by the time
I hauled it down a block,
up the twist of wooden stairs,
and into the room.
Sitting on the blue shag,
I began to sort and fold,
putting the figurine and
jewelry box on the dresser.
Taking a break,
I flipped through the pages
of “Winesburg Ohio,”
ignoring Mike’s notes
in the margins,
his tight cursive,
written in red,
trying to tell me
what I should think and feel.
