He was fine until he found her plastic
clogs behind the door, the only items
left behind. A southern girl up north,
she walked barefoot in the house until
the wooden floors stayed cold and she’d
shuffle long grey days in old felt slippers.
Sometimes she broke out tap shoes, marking
clatter-clicking time with rhythmic stomps.
She held the beat in everything she did:
playing Bach, kneading bread, leaving him.
She wore a crisp white blouse, her tight black
jeans, a brand new pair of oiled leather boots.
Her parting words were harsh but measured,
each light step unhurried toward her ride.