—after Deborah Digges
To the curator of my father in the next room:
His closet of trousers was custom-made
From Circassian walnut. Inside
His sweaters and shoes are gray. You will find
His belt buckles busted (he was growing obese),
And his coat pockets will be lined
With pastry crumbs. Opposite, his smell still
Lingers through his wife’s clothing,
Like broken wind. There is probably change
In a thousand year-old coffee can on the floor.
But if you find his seersucker,
With grass-stained knees and a yellow t-shirt
Shoved into a sleeve, bury him in it.
I want to see him sad one more time.
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