Dear William.
Sunshine through the dirty window.
Son, how did I sleep so long?
And now –
coffee and some poems by Martin Espada to read,
the warmth of his humanity, his words.
And my French roast.
A shower, clean clothes, my old beat up Jack Taylor sneakers;
dressed, but nowhere to go.
I get on the bike anyway and pedal downtown.
Why?
For even more coffee?
OK. The coffee shop is crowded.
I am the only person sitting alone.
I work my way through the coffee one sip at a time.
Where is my wife?
I don't know.
She told me, but I forgot.
I forget everything now.
She is at some meeting somewhere.
Maybe for a while she can forget your death.
I hope so.
Returning home, in the garage, there are those boxes
of your old things.
Clothes, Tom Waits records,
some books, some video games.
I had imagined you returning for them one day.
Gone, I would be inspired to organize the garage.
I would do something with it.
A workshop, maybe.
An art studio, maybe.
Certainly not a place to park the car.
I stare for a while and return to the house,
going in after having done nothing.
I will complete my day by doing more of the same.
Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.
This is your death.
And I must now find a way to continue to live.
Somehow.
James Lee Jobe
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