At the bottom of every bedroom is a floorboard you can lift.
It contains residue of betrayal,
but mostly dust and cigarettes.
Your day job is to read horror tales and deny insurance claims.
After you dumped me, you tucked a note in my file;
“His broken heart is to be classified a pre-existing condition.”
I met you accidently
when your car drove over my foot.
You were smoking foreign labels while talking on the phone.
You took me to the E.R. and later out for dinner.
You wrapped my cast with nicotine and stretched a condom on my boot.
I should have known that night you were a hit and run sort of lover.