By the author

FINAL GIFT

I’ve earned
the right
to isolate,
to gravitate
towards solitude,
to keep my circle
tight and glued.
The social country
of my youth
is now an island built for two.

I cannot help

but see the day,
when “we”
are just “you” and “me” again,
one of us, finally, “late.”
What a lovely way
to misstate death,
as if at any moment
the dear departed
will show,
slightly out of breath,
apologetic.
“Sorry … traffic.”

I hope you go first,
to be honest.
(Not that I hope it happens soon –
I dread it, actually.)
It’s just that I will make
the better widower.
I will grieve you sharply,
but this I already know,
the longing I feel
after you are gone
will not surprise me.
But if I am first to go,
you have no idea
how much you will be
at sea,
because you don’t realize
now
how much you love me.