There are still
black bristled hairs in

the carpet that I wanted
replaced
with hardwood – until

the heater ruptured, turning our living
room into waterfall

– and then there was the time the
          radiant
thermostat froze
into a land mine waiting
for just the right
jostle of tiny human feet to burst

on still new wood floors
warping
while the repair truck

slid off the side of our mountain
- 9,000 feet in the air -
and the bears tipped over the trash cans
every night, so I woke to drifts of debris
and yesterday’s coffee

I held
faithful umber eyes,
while a stranger in clown covered scrubs
gave her the goodnight-sweet-girl
in a syringe, handed a used leash to the receptionist
and walked out automatic
doors alone

you were gone that weekend, too.