Why Sam left

Before he steps out to the foggy morning,
Sam lifts his face to the nearest mirror
the briefcase tucks the years
a paper here, a shade of her lipstick there and photos, scattered.
Somewhere between the nightstand and the door he's left
the old slippers, filled with days untended by laden steps
somewhere else, the torn shirt that got caught
like a bird to a thorn, into the flaming grill
there's a lot you leave without notice
old crumples into the background and becomes part
of the picture, a picture painted with objects of endless
ends. Same carries himself out knowing
he left,

He left, because the food comes in cans
because the cans need a crooked edge opener
not everything opens with closure and then there's the smell
of cracking something to gulp
for future references. He left because the smell of fish reminded him
of the ocean, now rocks away-
smothered in iodine and extra lemon for easier swallowing
he left because wine is too much on his stomach
because the discoloration happens mostly on his tongue
where words become squeezed grapes in the sun
he left because of the neighboor's cat, meowing
moaning with grief each morning, missing cans and softer pads
and also because of the baby, the baby's crib that remains
to dust. The music, the soundless sleep among other things
but as Sam stepped out on the threshold
he knew some things are left to rot on purpose,
some others are opened and closed
like  lids, like jars , like morning conversations
food is contained in tin, to  save from undeserving teeth
sharpening for long conversations