Old Chairs
When I’m standing in doorways,
nose against fogged glass of time,
I see you:
You still have Batmobile clock.
the one from Forever,
not the Nolan films.
There is still a soot cover,
of cigarette ash,
gray market marijuana trimmings
on the table you’d toss
coins, affects from pockets
of jeans you don’t wear anymore.
You move with purpose,
full of reason for being,
rather than the peace made
with death’s relatives now.
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