Silent where they fell,
spent ash, dog hair, coffee grounds.
Silent as they were when useful -
for buzz, for warmth, for waking, now
bits of grit to grind down the slippers
and vanished for a pleasure.

Silent where they fell,
old debts dismembered,
chunks of glass that could perhaps
be re-assembled as candy dishes
or ashtrays - maybe porches
where the chew jaw geezers
took summer and low orange light
way back when.

And the sun fell where it falls,
like threadbare throw rugs
and beaters, old dogs
chained to trees,
and the red rust Fords
thumped by the woodpile
and scavenged for parts -
silent playthings for children
racing in the torn sprung seats.