Aftermath Inventory

Dust motes thick in the sunbeams,

a fine, dull sheen on everything.

They say it’s a blessing,

this sifting through.

I just find it mean.

An old box of crackers, stale

as a bad joke, tucked back

in the pantry. A crumb or two

still there, a tiny, forgotten sign.

The smell of mothballs, old paper,

like someone tried to keep it all,

didn't quite succeed, and now I'm stuck.

A dried-up flower in a vase,

its color gone, just brittle brown.

What's the point of holding onto that?