The “is” of him has crossed into the “was”.

The image with a shadow is now

cloaked in “was”. I knew his “is”

very well, never with thought of

his becoming a “was”. Shoes and shirts and

a favorite hat lay in a box; the hope

of a “was” not to visit; those were the days.

His favorite song is playing. He often tapped

wildly his fingers like dancing fleas

and hummed sweetly, never considering

the “was” of him may never again hum.

“Strawberries and bananas” he would say

is the most pleasant of tastes; no longer

a temptation, it “was” his best. A letter

arrived to “was”. “Yes” I said, he once

lived here. No longer his voice waves

over the walls. I sense his loss,

the “is” of him taken.








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