Richard

( for Richard Fox)

Richard’s book
is on the shelf.
He is alive
when it’s put there.

Later on, he passes away.
One is left with his book
and stories of his uncle.

Pay them no mind today:
leave them in the pages,
remember what he looked like
after the reading;

a brilliant hot summer day, a Saturday,
a Sunday perhaps;

him sitting
with a cane and smiling
as he signed, knowing he
would pass soon,
letting the money

come for him, for his book,
capturing his memory for one
to look at later, one who sobs
once, out loud, at the thought
of his uncle, gone long
before Richard went along;

thinking of what it must have
been like to look around
in the moment after and say,
“Oh. Oh…”

Taking comfort in that.
Settling into that. Enjoying
it, even.

Even now, even long
or shortly before.
Oh. Oh.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T