Souvenirs From Flossing

by Ben Fortenberry

These souvenirs from flossing-
To anyone else but me
They're gross and disgusting.

(Why don't I clean them off?)

On the tiled porcelain floor
Lies the sticky balled thread;
You left me that way once
All knotted up and dead.

(Why don't I throw it away?)

Crescent clippings scattered
All along the sink's rim-
I count them and recall
When love began to dim.

(Why don't I wipe them up?)

Clogging up the water's flow
Wads of hair block the drain;
Only these last damp bits
Of your body still remain.

(Why don't I clear them out?)

All these are raw reminders
And each a physical sign-
That I'm only pretending
Your bathroom is mine.

(Why aren't you home yet?)

With your ruby red lipstick
I write this on the wall-
My continued love for you
In sticky slanted scrawl.

(Why didn't you call me last time?)

We'll be together again
But for now I must flee;
You're due home from work
At exactly half past three.

(Why don't I stay?)