Vestiger

The dusty boxes huddle in the bleak, And harbor names of people long interred. The steady hands that wrote them were unique, Though nearly all their history was blurred. I spend the afternoons among the dead, With folded testaments and yellow slips. The careful, ordered lives the people led, Now reduced to fading ink upon the lips. I shut the cardboard lid and turn the key. The humming bulb shines brightly over me.