After My Untimely Death

Sometimes as I leave the house
I foresee people coming in and finding
remains of my life spread out like the ruins
of Pompeii. For sure on the floor
my Birkenstocks, well-worn and embedded
with my DNA, journals, books and magazines
stacked by my chair, yesterday’s running shoes
beneath the table, shoe strings dangling
toothbrush standing at attention, maybe the towel
still damp, a coffee cup with the final dregs,
today’s New York Times spread out,
half read.

Did I leave a light still burning,
awaiting my return? The chairs
around the table askew,
a life in process, my fuzzy lap
blanket still on the footstool,
housing my sloughed -off cells
hiding out in the folds of the yarn,
fingerprints on the sliding door
belong to this particular life.

Thoughts and dreams religiously recorded,
black ink in journal after journal,
stacks of them. Shelves of books
underlined and notated, my sweat
smudged on each page. Light streams
in through the blinds as usual.

Funny, all the years of viewing Orion’s belt,
I thought my place on earth
was permanent.