There’s a years-old, half-empty bottle of tequila
On a kitchen counter next to the sink, left
There, actually, by someone unaware
Of the holiday. She was cleaning out
Cupboards, ahead of the sale of her house.
Boxes, filled or empty, littered the floors
Around the half-full, half-emptied shelves.
Soon someone else will live here, soon, before
The next holiday knocking at the door. Under
The desultory ceiling fan of continuous differences,
The paintings and pictures still hang. What
You can say about such a careful arrangement
In the process of being removed and boxed
Is that it’s like extreme slow-motion footage
Of a beetle folding away its papery, origami
Wings back beneath the glossy shine. Things
That mean, that say “this is how she or he
Meant to be seen, wanted to be,” these are
The human equivalent of giant eye-spot wings
Signaling, for a while, “I was bigger than just me,
I opened up into the world and ascended
Into the air as I pleased. Look at my artful
Disposition of these, my co-created things.”
Tomorrow or next week, the house will be
Empty, the walls freshly glossy. She’ll leave
Behind the tequila, deciding to hide it, discreetly,
Whimsically, for the new owners to find it.
She tells me the last owners left it behind
For and her husband to discover, which they did,
But each separately, each becoming suspicious
Of the other’s secret drinking, watching
And checking the level of the tequila for months
Before realizing, with hilarity, it didn’t belong
To either of them. So now, she’ll sow the pearl
Of possible suspicions for the next couple,
Although perhaps this time whoever finds it
Will only either discard it or drink it, without
Wonder, as all who form no stories are without
Wonder or suspicion, sober or drunk, and are free.
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