Keepsakes I coveted from my friend Steve’s estate were a poem signed by Laurence Ferlinghetti and a lithograph by John Lennon of his chin resting on Yoko. Alas, I was outbid on both. Steve didn’t leave a will. He lived alone, unmarried, no children. The city had emptied his apartment, boxed up his possessions and sold them in lots at an auction showcasing things of the recently deceased in a non-descript warehouse on Church Street.