The soles of my feet carry your dirt
that you dragged into my house,
festering little monster, fostering distain
stained on the carpet like the foot prints of
squirrels leaping though my living room
along the couch with the imprint of your
back-side, shattering the lamp with its
claws, climbing up the cupboard and hiding in
the darkness out of sight except the hint of a
tail ever so often when I turn on a flashlight
then turn it off—click, goodnight.

Now I can’t see. I step in the dirt
and carry it into the houses of lovers that come next.