The Stuff of Loss

The well-intentioned sign hid shabby brick.
No pretension, that’s what I valued most;
Merely the starkness of exchange. The French
Knew we were happiest there; I could be too.
No ceremony I’m afraid: just me, stuffing
Your unsuspecting stuff in gaping sacks
(Black bin bags I confess – only the best for you!).
Fingering fabrics, I take our measure:
Is it just such stuff as we are made on,
Such cotton, silk, and wool that’s just pretend?
Stumbling back down crumbling steps, one thought
Re-stocks my newly ordered mind. A base,
Cheap thought: ‘He’d miss that lost apostrophe.’
And that’s what kicks the stuffing out of me.