Packing Day
three days after the funeral
all of your possessions
fit into four boxes
the acquisitions of seventy years
take less than an hour to pack
the cardboard boxes
we use are from the liquor store
three blocks away
each box bears the name
of some scotch
or bourbon
though i never saw you drink
i'm sure you must have
when you were younger
i've heard stories
each of the boxes
is slightly larger than
a breadbox
none of them are
very heavy
if we drove the boxes
around all day
and then all day tomorrow
they would never grow any bigger
our loss would remain
more vast than any highway
larger even than
the four chambers of the heart
Rosemary
during your "salad days"
as a journalist in chicago
you interviewed a whole family of mayors
then quit to homeschool your boys
well before that was the fashion
later, you opened a bookstore
where you sat at a corner desk
chain smoked and sweat
regardless of the weather
no trust funds protected you
against creditors
there was always, in your store,
the smell of cigarettes, old papers
and the popcorn you ate (with extra salt)
for lunch
you fixed the world's
worst coffee
and gladly bragged about it
you joked
you were never a cook
even in a past life
were you widowed
or divorced?
where was your first
hometown?
every year
there are fewer memories
every year
they grow less specific
your hoarse, stroked voice
the echo of an echo
within the ear
the long sold bookstore
now a pet shop
with a well-scrubbed smell