I heard you died this morning

I heard on the phone
that you died this
And suddenly,
my chair was
a piece of wood
with cloth on it;
My book
a block of paper
with black ink on it;
The TV a plastic
and glass object
with filth flowing through it.
And all the food in my
fridge was cold and damp;
Then the day lifted,
and the sun came out
and November was here.
And you:
a lamp turned off,
melted into the light.

Published in Rose Red Review