Pocket Square
tucked into his suit
right over his heart
a faded , yet prominent
swath of red cloth.
he wore it
in casket
he hid it
in life
it came from a memory
kept from his wife.
A piece of remembrance
a passionate play
a forbidden fragrance
that he could embrace.
He fooled all the photos
he role played his way
through 40 odd years
of longing each day.
He'd sneak to the attic
when she'd go to town
inside his war trunk
his treasure was found.
he'd brought it back with him
from Italy's shore
a bedsheet
that held heat,
to him, so much more.
He'd wrap himself in it
and sit down
and weep
He'd sail back
to Marta,
back to Sicily.
He told me his wishes
while he could still speak
He told me his story
for just me to keep .
He asked me to tailor
a piece from his past
and let him be buried
with that much attached
so that if there's more
to the bury than sleep
he might have this
memory to keep.
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