Sorting It Out by Philip Booth

At the table she used to sew at,
he uses his brass desk scissors
to cut up his shirt.
                            Not that the shirt
was that far gone: one ragged cuff,
one elbow through;
                              but here he is,
cutting away the collar
she long since turned.
                                 What gets to him finally,
using his scissors like a bright claw,
is prying buttons off:
                               after they've leapt,
spinning the floor, he bends
to retrieve both sizes:
                                he intends to
save them in some small box; he knows
he has reason to save; if only he knew
where a small box
                            used to be kept.

Comments

[Laura Wilson]

Thank you for sharing, for distilling all the fragments.
It IS the little things that scrape the scabs off, and make the wound new.
Where are you my love?
HOW is life just gong on without you?
How am I to live without you?
Elaine