disassemble heart, 6 years hence

we separate junk
not junk
cough in the dust
clank,
in the trash can
“ “, no sound
in the boxes
empty it out
leave no room.

no room for
the assistant
toting chunks of life
to the curbs
while he texts
everybody he can think of.

no room for him in this
he cain’t be in this
and he knows it.

no room.

leaning against
the tailgate
elbows on
eyebrows winking up at the sky

‘Well, I reckon it ain’t gonna rain on this load. Maybe just a sprinkle.’

‘Yup. Maybe just a sprinkle.’

we cain’t look at it
too hard
or we won’t be able to move.