The Auction Rooms spill lives;

memories

collapsing under hammers.

I see our bed-head – not the bed,

it seems they never sell –

remembered marks on walnut

where our heads had rested.

At the table, where we sat,

a mirage of meals.

Then the couch. That soft, soft couch.

“At three hundred!

Last bid – it goes at three hundred.”

The hammer strikes

at me. I turn away,

too much hurts

my heart today.