All That's Left Poem by Lindsay Wilson

All That's Left by Lindsay Wilson


She said easily in the hallway, I'm leaving.
Surrounded by white walls, I became what was left.

Above our apartment, for some air, I walked our dog.
The clouds erased the stars—only the tall moon was left.

I wanted a flight to a small town with a name harsh as wool,
where those of us who've escaped mauled are left.

I've traced the roads between here and the mountains,
plotted the fall, memorized the turns, a right, a left.

In the vacant lot on an old bed, a dog's leash, a map,
plastic flowers, a red ball tossed and left.

Believe me, I've understood her theft, and all
those words on my list labeled: Why she left.

I wrote my own: thieves and honor, drugs and recovery—
out of twelve steps, we had only two small ones left.

All your lists and words expose you, Lindsay,
as a fool—you are what the paltry thief has left.