What Was Left
The headboard to the guest room bed,
its mattress gone, the buckled frame
still joined to one unyielding bolt.
Three pairs of wrinkled dress pants
wadded at the bottom of the hamper,
six black T-shirts, an IBM
A snorkel, mask, and fins, white socks,
loose change, a broken film projector,
the television. Restaurant matchbooks,
tax records and old license plates,
boxes and bags of photographs—
the way that they once lived, the notes
and valentines sporting forever
and always, a jar of sauerkraut.
From Five Points Volume 13.3