Mr. Wayne Fuchs is still on mailing lists,
though he's been dead for years. When he'd grown old,
he sold his house to a medievalist
(his wife looked just like Dynasty's Alexis)
who bungled tenure at Tufts, so he sold
the house, in turn, to us and moved to Texas.
Compared to him, Fuchs palpably exists:

Time-Life Books, Inc., keeps trying their allure
and gloss on him, local pols never tire
of courting his vote, seekers of a cure
for colon cancer count on his donations,
the Lawn Shark Co. won't swerve in its desire
to trim his grass, and Parking Violations,
Burlington Township (we can't know for sure

just what possessed him) reminds him still of
some ancient ticket that's outlived his guilt.
He hasn't wholly died. We know the stuff
his dreams were made on: he liked his walls blue;
he'd had a wife who died; she's why he'd built
a backyard ramp her wheelchair could get through.
Massive planks studded with nails‹it was tough

to tear the damn thing down, they were so long.
So, what else did he leave? The kitchen table
he may have leaned on when he stood among
his packed crates, boxes and chairs, all alone
before the van arrived, and barely able
to gulp his coffee and to think, I'm gone.
the table's been wiped clean. Still, he was wrong.