Friday, September 04, 2015


for Robb

If I were outside I'd be glad of the snow that melts on my face,
the heavy, wet snow.
my tears would be hidden in snowmelt.
Perhaps then the flood that is held back by the weakening dam of my resolve could be released.

Old sheets,
mismatched dishes,
shelves of books,
lawn tools and electronics,
lamps and chairs,
old cassettes and Christmas lights,
pots and pans and army blankets.

These strangers
going through his things
cannot comprehend.

They are going through your house,
selling off your plates, your linens.
Strangers are pawing through your things,
Not knowing or caring who you were.
All of your books gone in one transaction,
The many things that made up your life.

Hands have grasped things and stolen,
the wine you meant for me,
The poem you read to me on the phone that day,
just an empty spot on the wall now.
Whose hands were greedy? Who took what was yours?
How has it come that what is left is the detritus,
like a shipwreck tossed onshore?

I hate them all in this moment,
Their clutching hands, their beady eyes,
The slobbering faces trying to hide,
the avarice, the hunger I despise.

I hate them for tossing aside the things
that once were yours,
like so much trash, they sniff and snort,
their disdainful laughing,
the eyerolls, the gasps.

I hate even more that you aren't here.
that you will never read another book,
will never light that lamp.
You'll never give me that special look...
where love and affection and amusement
all sparkled in your eyes, and a chortle on your lips.
You'll never rush with paper towels to wipe my windshield clean

Oh, dear God, you're gone!