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.
Roger Singer 