is this, his radio. his
pictures
of kids that he
never missed.
his plaques on
the wall
of ships.
his glasses.
old shoes, old clothes
that no
longer fit.
the bed, of course
he slept on,
not his.
the sofa
rumpled and frayed,
too
soft and sunken
for anyone but him
to sit.
a tv in the corner
collecting dust.
the bills upon his
desk.
the magnifying glass.
little on
the shelves or
the cupboard
or fridge.
not much.
and what is there to say
about any
of this,
a life
gone gently into
that good night?
only that it was his.
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