As a cop, I was expected to be observant, to see things that didn’t fit. I did, and I was pretty good at it. Now, I no longer think of myself as a cop. I’m a poet. Poets are expected to be observant, to see how things fit. I’m getting better at it. It’s a different way of seeing things. It’s more than seeing, it’s reading what can only be felt.

by Mike Patrick

Flickr image by twin72

Now that they are gone,
their lives are open . . . exposed to all.
The furniture is comfortably worn;
an end of the couch for her,
a recliner for him.

Who were they?
A stack of Laurence Welk music books
and a collection of magazines on antiques
fill in some of the holes.

All pictures have been removed from the walls,
but there were children.
A basement family room held high school trophies—
prominently displayed.
Pride shows there; pride, love and memories,
the trophies were old.

In the utility room, on rows of shelves
and across the back of a folding table,
stand more than a hundred small vases:
flower vases,
the kind that hold no more
than a couple long-stemmed flowers.
So many different shapes and styles
reflecting a lifetime of special days.
Each one, lovingly placed to view
every time the laundry was done.

I’m awed by a love that would place them so,
and inspired by the love that bought them.
Roses I think . . . maybe yellow roses.

I know them better now.
I can see the ghost of them.
They’re together . . . smiling.

This entry was posted in Aging, Children, Family, Free Verse, Love, Old Times, Poetry, Un-rhyming and tagged , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

2 Responses to ESTATE SALE

  1. vivinfrance says:

    Another beauty – freeing you from form has done wonders for your poetry!

    Not ‘over a hundred’: it should be ‘more than a hundred’ (sorry to be picky)

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