what remains
at the edge of town
where all the numbers are gone
from the only mailbox you’ve ever known
where no cigarette’s touched
for a thousand years
a handmade ashtray wrapped
in newspaper
and all that’s left
are holes in the carpet
where a reclining chair once sat
during the era of television
what do rose petals signify
especially now
the bush is just a few grey branches
and worn-down thorns
wheat pennies and peace dollars
end up in other places
scattered
among foreigners
why is it
everything you’ve ever made
or given
is now returned
do you know
going through shoeboxes of letters
where the others are
the ones you were supposed to save
what disparity
between something given
and a taken thing--
oh such absence of hands
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