even though it has not been used for years since his untimely death
in the vestibule by the front door
that he had walked through 10,000 times
death almost always seems to be untimely - usually grim
no doubt he thought he’d wear it again
no one’s even thought of putting it away
it would be like closing a door, turning out a light
so it stays on one of the prominent hooks
a silent sentry to the former life and times
there’s his old brown cloth recliner
worn arms reaching out
pining away in the front room waiting for him
he’ll never come back to sit in it
doze in it, tell stories from it, watch television in it
the bedroom closet still with his clothes
hanging there, haven’t made it to the thrift store yet
tools he used on the workbench he made himself
laying motionless gathering dust
one day they’ll all be put away but not yet
