All that is left of you

can be found folded neatly

in the linen closet,

a brown and white checked bed sheet

that refuses to unravel,

or be dulled by repeated bleaching.

It was always thin, masculine

with an incongruous border of lace

still sturdy and unstained

some thirty years later.

It is single, like we were,

and of no comfort or warmth.

Once I tried to win you back,

with red wine and Port Salut cheese

on chunks of fresh baked bread,

homemade butter, Greek olives, red grapes,

an impromptu picnic at the edge of a field,

under a tree, on top of this sheet.

It was enough for me, briefly,

just the musky scent of you.

I also have three seafood cookbooks,

inscribed with your unique handwriting

in which you describe, in detail, your love

of Maine, lobster and butter, but not me.

In a drawer of old things,

there is a low light strip of

Super 8 film which doesn't do justice

to my faded memories of your dark beard

and unruly black hair, with a streak of white.

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