All these things that were
Left behind
My mother-in-law's wedding ring,
(a strange, egg-shaped silver thing)
My Dad's watches, and
The fat black fountain pen that always leaked
The Beatles records
For whom at least one,
They'd stood on line
On a Winter, Pittsburgh sidewalk
Waiting to buy
(my Mom's fat belly
Protruding from her coat
already with me
And this poem inside)
Books whose spines had been
Silent friends
Eventhough their stories, re-
mained obscured
Oil paintings, and sketches
And a brick-red bust
From my Mom's
and/or Dad's university friends
These things, too carelessly, swept aside
Breadcrumbs that I've
Left behind, can
Never again
Lead me back
And there is no "back"
And at any rate
were all too sweet
for the birds to resist
Or the transatlantic winds
To allow to persist.
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