i bequeath

in his mind,
it's not money,
cash or coin, check
or a solid
brick of gold,
he's leaving none of
that to begin with.
it's that mug
he bought when he
was in france
for an hour,
or the stool he sat
on when he milked
a cow
in nova scotia.
it's a magnifying
glass
on his desk. his
favorite pen, dried
of ink,
his collector's
half dollar
of jfk
in a commemorative
tin. it's the radio
in the corner
that you gave him
and he never used.
it's his broken watch,
fogged and cracked.
the hands
forever
stuck on two.