Their house has fewer possessions
than when my wife and I helped
them move in three years ago.

Now we are helping them ready
their home to not be theirs.

I clean doors with baby wipes,
My wife and friends touch spots with paint.

The doors whitened, I stretch
on familiar wooden floor,
wipe down dusty baseboards.

World Series Game 7 is on,
a welcome distraction from grief,
a bat cracking, the breaking of my heart.