The Files

In years gone by when people still wrote letters

To tell me what they thought about, felt and did,

I read, then stuck them in my office files,

Where they still sit, their writers long expired.

I dread today opening up those files,

As though the writers’ wraiths might spring forth,

To ask me if I still loved them as I’d done,

They imagined, in the days when we were young.

The answer I would give is, No—I love them more.

Soon, though, when I inevitably die—in ten

Years, or fifteen, those who come after

Will junk my files—the letters, cards, and snaps,

In which those unappeased specters lurk.

Why should they not? There’s not much there for them.

For now, I guard these memories as best I can.

Tuesday, June 3, 2025