He was a tall man, says the length of his jeans
lying on the floor of his bedroom;
a thin man too, says the size of his shirts
hanging in his closet; and a man of science,
says the On the Origin of Species book lying
beside his unmade bed with dog-eared pages;
but not a man for love, says his empty contact list.

He owned a camera, say the many pictures
hanging on the walls in the living room, and
he liked to paint, say the paintbrushes lying on the
coffee table. There was a girl, says the jacket
slung over the back of the couch, they were close,
says the picture of them, hand in hand, sitting on top
of the television, covered in dust.

Something changed, says the empty driveway.
Vacant houses, say he was not the only one
to disappear; broken glass from the car window,
says he was not easy to catch. As for the girl?
Two empty front seats and one shoe left behind, say
she had disappeared too. Something had changed, they say.