Your sister begs me
to take your message off 
the answering machine.

Do I tell her I still call
to listen to your voice
and leave long messages.

Yesterday I sold
your acoustic bass to Anne.
She likes knowing

It was yours. I threw in
a guitar stand as a bonus.
I imagine them propped

up in her music room
as though you’ll stop by
to teach a new riff.

I bump around the house
much more unmoored than you.
You knew I wasn’t going

to handle this well.
I’ve started to donate your clothes
and books. Don’t worry,

the Native American books stay.
Whenever I come across a golf
scorecard, I add it to the pile.

Why do I keep them?
Sometimes I’m jealous
you went first, as I tie

your loose ends,
dust your collections
and preserve your voice 
for anyone who calls.
                        

Open a book, close it,
anything to get through
the next minute. Try to sew
a patriotic placemat
for the Fourth of July party
we’ll never have again.

Remember how we’d meet
everyone at the harness races
with our dollar bills and whoop
for first place—then home
to our annual barbeque,
our friends buzzed and dreamy.

Come home, Baby. I have a place
set just for you.