the longing

why is it so hard to throw
these things away, he thought,
counting the twenty seven long
sleeved white t-shirts,
stacking them like thin worn
cakes of cotton on the bed.
people, lovers, seem to be more
easily disposed of than
these shirts, those brown shoes.
a dozen pairs, all alike,
all worn in the same way,
along the edges
from the way that you walk.
the new Yorker magazines, crumpled
from being wet in the tub,
as you read and read,
skipping the parts you never
read, here they are.
a year's worth in a soft pile
expanding on the end table.
the socks, the belts, all beyond
their use, and yet
in drawers or hanging, with
neck ties, never to be
worn on a wheel in the closet.
nothing would be missed if they
were all gone when you came home.
there would be no longing,
at all, not like there is for you.