He worked in a sweat shop
way back when
a wordless widowed man
with a quiet hypnotic expression
coming home on a bus one day
fell to the floor
and passed away,
my beloved uncle
I missed his mystical silence
I knew he could
see inside me
They prepared to sell his house
sifting through junk
about to discover a surprise
in his dust,
a wooden chest
hammered brass trim
with magic writing paper
and a thousand poems
His silence bled out
the tip of a pen
drawing out the words
inside him
questions and answers
awakened by his light
curiosity opened a chest
of expressive treasure
I picture him unraveling
the mystery of self discovery
delighting in his invention
did anyone know the poem
in his heart
or did they only see
an assumption
His secret poems
were not folding money
ink on paper
thrown away
dying with him
on the bus that day
