She asks if I want any of his clothes.
Ties out of style before I was born,
shirts that touched his skin.
She wants me to wear part of him.
We move through the basement.
Paint cans, glass jars half-filled with nails, screws—
decades of mismatches and leftovers.
He could have organized before leaving.
We want her to wait, to not erase so soon,
though she keeps the stamp collection,
knowing that something in which so much
time was invested must hold value.
David Mihalyov lives outside of Rochester, NY, with his wife, two daughters, and two dogs. His poems have appeared in several journals, including in Concho River Review, Free State Review, and Naugatuck River Review.