The Last Sorting

The crackers in the pantry expired in June.

They make a hollow, plastic thud in the bag.

I’m moving through the kitchen with a heavy spoon,

while the spirit of the place starts to stutter and lag.

A pair of reading glasses sits on the mail,

watching me toss out the coupons and bills.

The sunlight is thin and particularly pale

over the spice rack and the bottles of pills.

I found a crossword half-filled on the stand,

with a seven-letter word for 'a place to rest.'

It’s strange how much a pen survives a hand,

and how the silence is the hardest part of the test.