and the rest of a life

and the rest of a life had been slip knot tied, carefully packed up, boxed into

It’s never more than a moment,
as short as when you’re sitting mending an old shirt,
a button having popped loose      and it falls into a hand that isn’t there,
catching nothing but dust motes dancing in the late afternoon sunlight,
when it’s just before the now that will be showing up later,
tomorrow  —  same time, same place, housed in the memories,
caught in the sheer voile,
those curtains so easy to snag, on rings –
like the gold band that now cuts into a finger,
on your left hand,
which means exactly what,
after well past 55 years –
what’s right now,
for all those voices raised,
much like fists pushing into dough,
kneading out breads for their sweetness     because no one knows what happened to those floor-to-ceiling curtains,
after all the furniture was loaded into that semi’s trailer and the rest of a life had been slip knot tied, carefully packed up, boxed into
corrugated brown bruises —
they fold in on themselves when empty, like loose skin –
and no one thought to save them     for something,   for some      other chance    and the snag of pulled threads are the body’s veined curtains, floating memories, as they catch on the fall of the furnace’s first hot breath rumblings,    and you flutter   remember   what it means to bleed the pipes.

after: Tailor or sailor?  +  Blueprint for Elegy