You find it when your old life is lost
moving dressers, peering under the bed
while trying to make some sense of it all
through cobwebs, mites and cat hair
furniture and lamps
a most familiar room
where someone else will live
the house and all it’s walls embracing strangers
Through the blinds, Apollo’s light
would lay it’s stripes upon our bed
waking us from each other’s arms
and dreams on Sunday mornings
but that is past;
the procession of the living goes on
those moments becoming like the dust
which you vaguely know was once your skin.
there are girl things
dolls you carry by one leg
with hard rubber hands and dimples
and clothes you take off and on
these things we take
for girls will not part with them
but in his empty dresser drawer
a boy thing; a tiny match box car
undamaged since that long ago day
when she had to put it away
now out of it’s dark place
you hold it, eyes brimming
it makes no allowances, makes no differences
you leave it lovingly in the corner of his bedroom closet.
So sad, Frank. I felt I was in the room with you.
Best wishes, Pete.