Tempus edax rerum

I look for you in things you left behind:
          your party dress, Gram’s brooch, that beaded bag,
          a rayon scarf with hints of Jean Naté.
But you are gone who touched and loved them all.
The mildewed albums mock the fresh-faced youths,
          abandoned now in faded black and white,
          who never could have guessed their shabby fate.
They could not hold you here—not them, not me.
Yours was a long and almost happy life
          whose shards fill eighteen cartons that now sit
          at curb-side ’til St. Vincent’s men arrive.
I’ll supervise with mostly tearless eyes
and leave you to those gentle scavengers.