Another of Richard Picciuto’s poems that reflects his deep contemplation of death and the ramifications of one’s demise. His friends and family wish that he were still with us to have more conversations about the subjects that he enjoyed examining. This verse is taken from his second book, Moonlit Weeds.
My razor blades were put in the rear slot of a
medicine chest, now my razors are disposable
and will end up in some landfill. No traces of
childhood left: bats, balls, train sets, toys,
bikes, clothes, hobby collections, papers, pens,
pencils, even theater ticket stubs. Everything I have
used or will use will be gone: cars, tools, dishes,
milk bottles, books, hard drives, and other relics.
One day my body will be gone, burned or buried.
I suppose someone will dispose of it, maybe in
some graveyard or reduced to ashes in an urn.
At some later date everything will be gone from
the planet, merely an icy cinder floating in space,
gone and forgotten.