Elegy For My Uncle Whom Coronavirus Stole

As I cleaned up what was left behind

after the virus took him

(Not the first virus, the

one he never got despite being

Gay in New York in the Eighties and

Losing at least one Lover)

…

The cough drops, the Gatorade,

a lone thermometer,

too many paper towels into which

he coughed, (Did he cry?)

a sink of dishes,

a couch of blankets,

a shoe here, a shoe there.

My mother had never been to this

apartment before; she kept saying

“I’m sorry Marc, I’m sorry Marc,”

talking to her lost little brother.

We took turns weeping on the balcony

as strong men removed his furniture,

as the pictures came off the walls.

I put his clothes in a garbage bag, the

perfectly blue jeans, the

perfectly collared shirts, the

underwear and the disorganized shoes.

I kept hearing him say, “I’m sorry, Lex.

Thank you, Lex. Please get these people

out of my apartment.” He never would have