Though your chair is empty now
Your overripe sorrows linger.
More pungent than the soft, warm fruit
Always piled up high in that tattered basket
On the table between us.
Without the hovering fruit flies, wafting cigarette smoke
And your drawn on eyebrows to distract me
I really notice the yellowed, floral patterned wallpaper.
It all has to go.
Francis Santaquilani
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/it-all-has-to-go/
