Putting his old stuff up:
A bowie knife in its sheath
A Cattan & Son mechanic's cap
A pair of haggard miner boots

People say sorry and 
"My condolences,"
I sputter platitudes
Easy to say
Open your lips and don't think.
Grief is the common language no one understands.  

They might be sorry.
And this bowie knife  
might have mystical powers  
of preservation;
that the hat will keep his smell  
on earth a while longer.

And while I handle the details  
think of epitaphs
greet old relatives in
dusty, biblical homes:
the real thing goes 
missing