Disappointed Rain

There are twelve phone books
strewn across your porch
like tortured reminders.

It rained last night,
a subtle lullaby
against half-opened windows;
I could hear,
in the drops
across those cheap plastic bags,
your disappointed sigh.

Tomorrow,
I'll call the Salvation Army
to come pick up these boxes
of chipped china
and faded flamingos.

Right now,
I'm burying the cat
we all forgot to feed
once the ambulance took you away.