His towel, hanging rumpled on the bar,
holds the ghost of his hands.
His Pears transparent soap.
Two strands of silver woven through his comb.
of his clothes. Can you carry them
down to the washer, hang them
on the line?
can you fold them smooth against your chest
and let them go
In the shower, dandruff shampoo
he thought he’d try.
On the door, the empty
will you wash your hair,
stop wearing his robe?