St. Vincent DePaul collected your clothes.
The shelves from floor to ceiling which once held
rows and rows of buffed and polished shoes
now hold Pinot Grigio, Cabs, and Merlots.
At Christmastime I charged the Nikon camera,
digital of course, and then swept room
to room to snap a floral portrait
of crimson poinsettias you never viewed.
An H P Touch computer receives the solemn prose
which flows freely from my fingertips,
while shiny earphones relay songs
from the IPod Nano with its FM radio.
A Keurig now resides on the counter by your sink
complete with tiny pods labeled French Toast,
Pumpkin Spice and Gingerbread; how nice
that it’s a stone’s throw from our bed so
I can linger over coffee before I strap
those headphones on–to climb upon
the Star Trac treadmill for a sweaty mile or two
of walking briskly–to nowhere.
The IPad, I’m sure you would have laughed at,
for I now play Stick Golf, Solitaire,
and explore the heavens from Star Walk.
All from the refuge of our room.
The Kindle, in its weightlessness, holds volume
after volume of books, a subscription to
The New Yorker, and some word games.
Time gently passes in pixels.
If there is an hereafter, transmit a sign
electronically on one of your replacements.
Perhaps in the early evening,
while I sip my glass of wine.
Jan Chapman
January, 2011
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