There was no money

Left inside,

Taken, I suppose, for purposes

Of need at the time of his passing.

 

The wallet, a tri-fold

Of black leather,

Soft and fragrant,

Still held photos of his grandchildren

 

And his “Order Of Old Bastards”

Membership card, and his

Drivers license, social security

And pistol permits

 

For the .357 Colt revolver

The .22 Ruger, the .22 Smith & Wesson

And his Pinkerton Detective card

From 1962.

 

Like the folded napkin

Of a special guest who has left

The dinner table too soon

On urgent business

 

It remains here in his absence

And I can imagine

His spirit is as near

As the memories he left behind.

 

 

©Diane E. Dockum, April 6, 2015