Mr. Coffee wheezes the final strains
of dry smoke and memory–
an usher down unconscious aisles,

Into rooms roped off with whispers,
where dust embalms each breath of life,
the lost words and forgotten quotes
that echoed in an empty room.

And ashes that once were rose —
petals too often touched with remembrance,
are preserved in an old Folgers jar.

Only souvenirs of silence remain,
a photograph that speaks no name,
and a passion left unclaimed.