an unordered list of things that remain

1. two egg shells broken
in half on a paper towel
in the morning light

2. an empty water dish
on the floor, stained
with age-old saturation

3. the space in the air
where the sound of nails
on hardwood once rattled
through the breeze made
by open window summertime

4. a phantom peripheral
pulling me left to glance
at an unoccupied square
of carpet where dust motes
now dance

5. a feeling of recognition
that a certain feeling
no longer exists

6. two disjointed jungle animals
with broken squeekers and
torn ears, legs flopping and cotton
innards wisp out of gnawed
seams like dead dandelions
ready to take flight

7. a box with a name engraved,
ready

8. a list of things to do but not
the will to do them

9. a window through which no
one looks until the Thursday
garbage pickup has passed so
we don’t see all that once remained:
dog bed, collar, leash, etc.

10. and you,
the bluebirds still calling
out your radiance
in the sunlight

that remains as well

James H Duncan is the editor of Hobo Camp Review and the author of Nights Without Rain, What Lies In Wait, Dead City Jazz, and other books of poetry and fiction. He also reviews indie bookshops at his blog, The Bookshop Hunter. For more about his work, visit www.jameshduncan.com.