What You Left

A small poem for my uncle who passed away.

Where did you find the strength to clean your treasure?

How many bullets until December?

Because there is an empty place at our Christmas table,

The air is quiet and the fire stable.

I am waiting for the knock on our door,

For you to hold me like you did before.

I am waiting for the spice of your cigar stink.

waiting for the scratchy beard you rubbed on my cheek.

And I will never know what I did or what to think

Because there was comfort and there was none

in the barrel of that gun.

The fact that there was less to hurt

in death and in a tug of heart.

And I sat in your studio and felt your smile.

And I knew that it would be a while,

Before I believed I was not to blame,

And there was no reason to be ashamed.

You held my hand and squeezed it tight

As we walked through the park late at night.

You said you loved me so so so much,

And I will never forget your artist's touch.

The way you cleaned your home and treasure,

That you and her had loved together,

And left your ring and left a note,

And left the gun as our scapegoat.