Dead People’s Things for Sale
Here lies a fragment of their affection,
two olive-bronze chairs
across a shield-round table,
a planter in its middle for green shoots.
On it they shared figs from a tree
behind their rental, held each like a toad’s
pale belly sliced to marigolds
or to a knee’s meager pomegranate flesh.
I was there. I remember.
The tree is gone. So is their rental,
the block plowed flat for a hospital’s garage.
The table we kept for a later rending.
Read the rest in The Banyan Review.
teoppoet poetteop 