pack-rat cached
some within reach
others only objects of meditation, anymore.
my altar to my elders
shelves of urns not yet filled with ashes and dust
still exposed to moth and rust
even though you aren't
your comet is extinguished.
your corporeal form has burned out
but I have kept your impactite, your desert glass
your eyes and stubborn heart
your tools, your fishing rod
your handwriting, your job
your football tickets and how you talk.
your boat shoes and tall socks
your sewing machine and house plant
your army uniform and canvas bag
can't sense "you" the same anymore.
nothing to see but granite, carved.
nothing to smell but your empty house.
nothing to hear but home videos and a voicemail
nothing to taste but the wards of this recipe box
nothing to touch but these pieces of your impact crater
that I've maniacally endocannibalized
in my frail quest to hold you closer longer.
Sweet sorrow sometimes too unwell balanced.
For many - in honor of Milton Douglas
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