Βι¶ΉΤΌΕΔ

He left me with his roses
and his black dirt garden
with his tomatoes and lettuce
but he forgot to take our evenings in the kitchen together
and he forgot to take the smell of his jacket
and the sound of my name,
the way he said it.

He left me with his catfishing
and his care of tools
and a set of deer antlers on the wall
but he forgot to take his glass of wine
and ginger ale
and his big hands around mine.

He left a grey tackle box
a handmade knife
and some homemade sinkers
but he left his hat on the rack
and his glasses by the bed
but he forgot to take his name,
forgot to take his smile.

He left his cruficix on the wall,
the statue of the Virgin on his dresser
and the braid of garlic
he loved so well.