what remains
things are good as I am not dead yet
and the rats move in the beercans,
the papersacks shuffle like small dogs,
and her photographs are stuck onto a painting
by a dead French and she too is dead
and it took 14 years to know her
and if they give me another 14
I will know her yet . . .
her photos stuck over the glass
neither move nor speak,
but I even have her voice on tape,
and she speaks some evenings,
her again
so real she laughs
says the thousand things,
the one thing I always ignored;
this will never leave me:
that I had love
and love died;
a photo and a piece of tape
is not much, I have learned late,
but give me 14 days or 14 years,
I will kill any man
who would touch or take
whatever's left.

© Frank Silvanski