I heard you died this morning

I heard on the phone

that you died this

morning.

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;

rotten.

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