In the style of William Carlos Williams (or poems about nothing):

I have tasted
your icecream.
It was cold
and sweet
and wrong
to do.




I'm sorry
I slept
in the cool sheets
on the soft mattress,
under the warm blanket
of our bed.
I missed you,
but
it was nice
to sleep.




I know you are mad
because I am
late.
I was distracted
by the pool
of slush,
blackened with soot,
outside our door.




I'm sorry I'm
late.
I
could
not
stop
writing.





Do not be mad
at me
for not paying
attention.
I was
writing
of
love
and
you.




I know you are
mad
because I am
sad,
but sometimes
I cannot help
it.




Bright
Hot
Tall
Flickering

Standing
on
a
desk

waiting
to
be
snuffed
out.




Dead
and
red

upside
down
hanging

tied
together
bundled
together

dried
and
beautiful
roses.




One
second
at
a
time:
Tick
Tock
goes
the
clock.




She
loves
me,
she
loves
me
not.

Purple,
soft
collected
petals.

She
loves
her
daisies.




Still
and
quiet,
collecting
dust.

Green
waxy
potted
soil
sprouting
inside.




I am sorry
I let the candle
burn
all
night.
I like
watching
the
wax
melt
and
the
flame flicker.




Clear,
swirling water,
stained porcelain:
cool to touch.
It is beautiful,
but it comforts me,
rests me,
and swirls
when it flushes.





Behind the shadows,
next to the matted carpet

where stagnant odors
sit in waiting

lie pairs upon pairs
of dirty shoes

waiting to be worn.




I can smell its stench
floating through cracks.

I know that beneath
the lid
atop papers, bottles,
coffee stained filters,
and used tissues,

lie piles of soft,
glistening
pieces of a
dead chicken.