In the Museum of Your Last Day
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.
"In the Museum of Your Last Day" by Patrick Phillips
from The Writer's Almanac with Garrison Keillor: