I had to go outside to check that there was still a sun in the sky
That the cars were still passing
And that the vultures hadn’t started circling yet.
I had to touch things that were real.
Smooth, cold kitchen worktops,
Hard, brittle things
That had the audacity to keep
Existing in a world where you didn’t.
I was insulted by their brass.
I was insulted by your leaving.
I could live with rage more readily
Than the hollow hurts of grief.
And so it went ,
Because I knew all the good poets had already gone.