I am on a street in Sunnyside, Queens, the
City of cities, the reflecting pool of the world,
When a jumbled reminiscence hurries in.
A rubbish removal company has parked its vans
Outside a house. Odds and ends of a life are
Stacked at the curb, though it seems the
Good stuff was picked away by the workers.
The pictures are gone. The notebooks, too.
Those summary memories confiscated —
It is a perk for the workers, one which I envy,
To salvage unique traces of a life lived,
Though I understand the treasures are rare.
The truest junk makes the curb:
Computers, televisions, electronics;
Workers have removed hard drives and
Some salvageable/saleable innards but most of this
Behavior-sculpting gadgetry will rot, like the
Vanishing gestures that attacked them,
Never crying out for salvation or re-use.
I remembered clicking through my uncle’s hard drive,
Looking for his e-mail password, just steps from the
Spot at which he died. His drunk wife ridiculed me.
“I thought you were smart,” she drizzled.
My retort — “I am” — crumpled unspoken.
I often see the text that voices speak,
Slithering into oblivion or rising to nobility,
And that day the words, hers and mine, drowned.
I never found the password but I landed in a
Swirl of text, a surprising storm of words from my
Uncle, who was not the sharing or reflective type,
But who seemed to have played along with some
Diary software that appeared, demanding use.
His trail of thought was dark and sarcastic, and
From it I wish I remembered even a single word.