after all these years

she's out
before the sun
comes up.
with her one small
suitcase
and cat.
her hats and gloves.
that Tupperware
dish
that you finally
washed.
no note on the fridge.
no kiss
farewell on
the cheek.
she hardly
made a sound,
slipping
out the back door
to get into her
beat up old
chevy
with baby moons,
and an end the war
sticker
on her bumper
that still, after
these years,
holds true.