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I still have
you rectangle
black leather wallet,
but it is empty now:

the money notes
banked in your account,
the cards sorted,
cut up and shredded,

the loose coins given
to your chosen charity.
How lonely it looks now
without you to handle;

the leather worn
at the edges
through use
you gave,

shiny black,
silent black,
unused now,
kept as a memory

to hold onto in days
of hurt like now
and years to come.
I remember

that last Saturday
in hospital,
you took out coins,
to buy bottles of water,

to quench your thirst
and help you pee.
The wallet looked full then,
bulging at the seams,

full of use and life,
held in your hands,
your fingers working
the coin zip.

Now it lays there
unused and thin,
your DNA
all over it,

worked in the seams,
the leather,
the small pocket
of the wallet.

I feel close to you
when I rub a thumb
or ageing finger
along its black

rectangle length,
the shiny worn leather,
bringing us, momentarily,
closer together.