For Frank Longley

For the last few days I have been haunting my recently deceased co-worker Frank Longley's cubicle. Noticing things like an un-eaten apple, post notes with numbers, a
time stamp machine that never ceases clicking off the minutes, and then this
morning I come upon a poem featured on "Writer's Almanac." Sometimes poetry
says all that needs to be said.

Luv, yardhog




In the Museum of Your Last Day
by Patrick Phillips

there is a coat on a coat hook in a hall. Work-gloves
in the pockets, pliers and bent nails.

There is a case of Quaker State for the Ford.
Two cans of spray paint in a crisp brown bag.

A mug on a book by the hi-fi.
A disk that starts on its own: Boccherini.

There is a dent in the soap the shape of your thumb.
A swirl in the glass when it fogs.

And a gray hair that twines
through the tines of a little black comb.

There is a watch laid smooth on a wallet.
And pairs of your shoes everywhere.

A phone no one answers. A note that says Friday.
Your voice on the tape talking softly.