March Summer

The attic smells of sex,
outside wetness,
mold, winter’s ashes
and baby crocuses.
A window prefectly placed
under the point of the A of the ceiling
with those curtains I
bought on a whim
hoping you’d like them
and their elegance amid
our thriftstore furniture
and faux finish paint job,
I look through it
at the space between my car and
that jerk next door and at the grease stain
from your jeep on the street.
In bed tonight
on sheets changed
maybe last Sunday,
I will search alone for
your stains there.