His estate was a cheap, dime-store tie,
oddly touching in its bad taste,
brown, worn, torn, wool fabric,
with a silly flying bird on it.
I’ve kept it in my closet all these years.

I found it in his sleeping room,
swarming with cockroaches,
nested with empty liquor bottles,
and butts of Camel cigarettes,
symbols of what had sustained him.

His legacy to me was the rejection
he had received from his father.
I watched his dedicated self-destruction
with the singular detachment of a coroner.

I buried him as I promised I would,
duty, not love, the motivation,
I could burn the tie tomorrow
but another one would always remain.