They found,
in a cigar box,
ensconced in a cubby hole
of my antique roll top desk,
address labels from
Roxanne Blvd. Highland, NY,
where I no longer lived,
having passed on to a,
if not better place,
at least then, to a quieter one…

Those labels, now no longer needed
in the daily commerce of my life,
were torn and tossed into my
wicker waste basket which had held
past payed bill stubs,
letters from fast friends
I had not seen in years,
the torn and quartered pages
from my desk calendar,
with all those important appointments:
board meetings; rehearsals; company coming; Ken Going.

All written in and crossed off
from the daily boxes,
having been met, accomplished, ignored, skipped, forgotten,
now relevant to nothing,

like me,
like my body,
now ensconced in its own box
in its own cubby,
needing nothing but
to sleep away my date with eternity

or

the Shout and eye popping awakening
to the joyful realization
that faith had become substance
and that which had been hoped for
was now evidenceually,
seen.