The Restroom

It’s become as ordinary now
as seeing my face reflected

in the bathroom mirror,
or hovering over the porcelain

toilet. I think, it’s been
nine years since you’ve died.

I’ve made an invisible list
of what you’ve missed. You never

met the man I’ve married. Or
sipped that aromatic bougie drink

at the restaurant with smoked
meats, or pet my dog, or toured

my new house. It’s unfair
but sometimes I pretend you’d

hate it all, judge him, dismiss
the podunk town we live in,

just to make myself feel better.
Other days, your face appears

behind mine laughing in the mirror,
me sharing a sideways secret

about my life that you never
asked for while, outside, someone

hammers away at the door.