When I die
They will come for me
Carry me out under a sheet and
Wonder what to do with
My cats
My random notebooks full of words
That mean something only to me
My piles of towels and steel dinnerware
The plaid shirts and floral bowties
The ankle braces and walking canes
The daily medications and soymilk packets
The puzzle books and Kindle.
They won’t know what to do with
The memories that hover in each room
And on the balconies and terrace
In the bath and on the stairs
The endearments for each cat
The introspections on identity and desire
The monological battles fought in bed
On the couch and in the chairs
When the neighborhood slept or sped by in loud cars
The moments of desolation and joy
Of despair and wonder
Debates over loneliness or solitude
Over worth and privilege
Over rights and change
The poems that never heard words
The art that never saw color
The stages that never saw performances.
They won’t know what to do with these
Because they won’t see any of it
They carried all that out
Under a sheet
While they muttered about the weight
And wondered who to call
Checked their phones and their lists
For whom else they must pick up
Before they can say
They earned a tea break.
Photo by Mads Schmidt Rasmussen on Unsplash
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