Like everybody else, I live among my marginalia.
The orange peels, the leftover lentil stew, goes in the trash,
I presume. I let the maid take care of it.
There are drawers full of photos, although I
Am a blur in them all, as though some thumb came down
and pressed and turned viciously in the emulsion.
There’s no end of it, until there’s the it, which must be tossed
Into the furnace or the coffin
And the marginalia is cleared away, testimonials all.
I will let the undertakers take care of it.
I presume they know how to do that kind of thing.