In an empty room,
the mid-October 
sunset creeps orange 

through Venetian blinds
to expose the faint
sunstains on the wall,

rectangles where there
once hung photographs
in wooden picture

frames. The pink carpet
still looks bright and new,
notwithstanding those

shallow impressions,
slow to even out,
where the crib once stood.

Charlie says to dump
our shit wherever:
this room's empty now.