Grocery receipt from
Two Thousand Seventeen.

I can still sit
in that kitchen and eat.

Chicken wings
salmon steak
sweet potatoes.

Dave or Maurice
complaining about work.

Complimenting the largest
barbecue sauce bottle
I’d ever seen.

Cat on the counter
moments from sleep.

The consequence of leaving
is that the memory
and the meaning
disappear like
cars reaching
the pinnacle of the
Garden City Skyway,
then declining
and melting
into the evening.