Some Found Things

Some found things
by the road
to your home:

Your pair of
eyeglasses
thrown away
forsaking
clarity;
torn pieces
of paper
hastily
scribbled with
familiar
acronyms;
little bits
of chipped wood
from what seemed
like a well-
split pencil.

The small road
told your tale
as it was.


  * * *


Your small house,
commonplace
corpuscle,
lost you well.

Where should I
find some marks
of your faint
fingerprints?
Should I start
making up
wild stories?
Like, let’s say
“He was here
but found this
world wanting,
that he fled”,
or “he loved
them, the lights,
very much
he’d rather
in the dark
stay hiding.”

Those great dreams
you spoke of
now orphaned
walls, pillars
with no nails,
subterfuged
cobbed corners
bereft of
your trademarks,
absent your
presences.