Grief
     by Elijah Patterson

And I spend my nights
(and early mornings,
and late afternoons,
and Thursdays)

wandering the rooms of my home
touching with unfeeling fingertips the things you left behind,
thickly calling up their names and stories:
figurine,
book;

shuffling listlessly with one sock on,
and one slipper,

because the other was under the bed
and it seemed too far
to reach.