The Tenant Before Me At 62 Downer Ave Poem by Rip Brown

Where did she sleep? Where I do now?
Did we lay together at night, in the same room,
where the two corner windows traded breezes while we dreamed?

The bathroom—did she lie in its tub,
suds billowing up while she soaped down
her sleek body beautiful and brown like my own?

Was that kitchen linoleum laid new for her,
did she smile at being the first to spill her stew on it,
or a glass of milk? If I tried could I taste
something of her flavor on the stove?

What did her laughter in the hall sound like?
Did she cry for the child she bore, then gave up?

It must be her scent I smell, smudged in the colors
of the stained-glass window in the door panels,
against which she pressed her teary cheek.