After the loss comes the separation of the roads we travel
I make sudden decisions to replace a chair,
get a new bright kitchen bin
But I see that it will no longer be the kitchen you knew.
And your bed is covered in objects or clothes
awaiting a new destination.
I can’t sit in there looking at this green view
In case someone comes to the door…
I am slow on the stairs,you see.
And it’s no longer your room,, where you wrote your books
with our old cat lying across your shoulders.
Parts of it look oddly tidy
Then there are bags to divide up your possessions…books to keep?
Books to toss?
Clothes to kept in memory?
i thought I could hear a voice speaking to me
I had kicked your red radio!
that was not your voice
This is not a poem.
I am not myself.
Yet who else am I?
Maybe those we call mad
are simply better at picking up signals
which the sane can ignore
but who can say which ones matter?
You are still here in your urn…
Whatever shall I do with you
Or without you.
This is not a poem
i am not dead
I am not a person.
the radio addresses me.
Am I alive?
Everything little thing I do
makes me more separate from you.