Presents

I threw away your underwear
the other day.
It was a white pair of boxers
with blue motifs on it
and when I commented upon them
you just shrugged
and handed them over.

I took out the bag of your
birthday
presents
just yesterday.
A collection of mundane stuff,
stuff meant to make you laugh.
I bought them
in earlier, chillier days
before the clouds
of the quarantine
were clear and menacingly
approaching.

I took each
one
of them
out.
I held them
for a while.
Black thread and needles
for you said you had not one.
A chef's hat
and boxers
with weed leaves on them,
both black.
A warm black sweater.
I held each one
of them
for a while
and kept what could be used
and gave away the rest.

Your birthday card,
the inks of it long dry,
rests somewhere
securely
in a box.

I should have sent them
before the quarantine
was in place.