What am I supposed to do with your good watch?
You wore it on Sundays and the day we married. 
Your old Timex was broke to smithereens when
They rode you out on the mantrip. Time over. 

We buried you in your good suit, but the hats,
Hats and more with names and places you
Wished to see or do or own and never did.
You’ve not enough brothers to claim them all.

And the flashlights, oh, how many flashlights! 
You loved the light, hated the dark, but there
Were never enough flashlights or lanterns
Or bulbs to push back that fear. 

The dark  makes me mourn deep inside.
My hope of heaven is that you do not know
That blackness down there so far below 
The sky and grass and stone and flowers.
 
I think of you with Pap and Sudie and John,
And see you in the sunlight, walking straight. 
Not broken, not cold and never scared again. 
But what should I do with your waiting toolbelt. . .? 

K. Bruce Florence