For Charles Simic

The spoon is still on the table,
its small mirror holding the ceiling.
Nothing dramatic happened
just a chair pulled back
and a silence learning a new shape.

You taught us
that history eats quietly,
that angels prefer basements,
that the ordinary object
is already a confession.

Somewhere, a fork listens
to a war it cannot stop.
A shoe waits for its foot
like a thought refusing certainty.
God is not absent,
He is distracted.

You knew how laughter
survives the century,
how terror keeps house
inside the refrigerator,
how a poem can be a joke
told to the dead
that they understand immediately.

Now the world continues
without permission.
A streetlight flickers.
A man misunderstands his life.
The universe shrugs
and means well.

On your grave, we write
what you already proved—

“The world doesn’t end.”

It only clears its throat
and asks the next question.

– Ókólí Stephen Nonso