Wrappers Remain

I wrapped you in the cheap crinkled foil
of a small chocolate egg
and let the sweet yellow puss inside
ferment then
rot away at all that naturally and
miraculously once was.

I take pisses in the backyard
in semi-night
and wonder what the foliage
around and above once
must have been.

I don't say "remember"
as it is impossible now.

In the shed
in some random utility buckets
are the crushed orphans of musty
Top-Siders my dad once wore as a crewman
on the decks of sailboats
bought by other people's old Detroit money—

the glory days contained many shoes
and roughly half of them uselessly