Most of it is collected
piled like brush
into the back of Papi’s hitch-trailer

books
folding chairs
boxes marked compact discs
kitchen stuff
bathroom

Mostly empty
these boxes hold
the little I held here

Left in apartment corners rags glued up with paint
odd scraps of 2x4
hollow plaster buckets
rotted brushes, fungal
magazines
dishes
weeks & months

of drowning in it
the place lies drowned
under all I failed to attend
in these last hours south

Empties piled in sink green flask
brown flask
clear flask

Something in the engine coughs
but Cosson and the kid wait
5 hours above me
to huddle in the warmth
I have tried these days to replace

Leaving a place
is a death

as close as a grave
or an urnful of ash
distance makes names memories

& memories are not
so long
they can avoid
being left

like empty bottles
in a rusted sink:
forgotten.

Nestor Gil, Jr.
Issue #9, 10/05