every object in your leather bag
had been ready for the day
every pen, every piece of paper
every menthol gum in place
every
t h i n g
in order
you didn’t take it with you
left it there
an intact extension of yourself
and when you died it kept sitting there
waiting for your return
motionlessly in the sunlight
your death was caused
and when your leather bag was handed to me
when I unzipped it
loss ripped me open
truthfully
and I saw in it
every day that was lived
and the day that wasn’t
and the day that wasn’t
and the day that wasn’t
Croque-Melpomene 