eat my cinnamon raisin bread
from the inside out,
so if you follow the trail of
crust and crumb to my bed,
swear innocent but not one
cinnamonized raisin will be found

put on my slippers with
trepidation,
for slippers so named,
slip off my toes
at the worst moments,
that my life insurance
expressly forbids our
cohabitation

Well gifted and well returned,
my parents taught me to love
words and the human voice enthralling,
voyage never ending,
love of words

If our issue be our mark,
then mark them well
for you reputation recedes
with them

so as I ponder the why and where,
of the last poem I will write,
issue a tiny prayer that the notes
be cinnamon raisin sweet
and that each letter
slip from my heart,
and let these marks of me
come with smoothing ease of
a welcoming finality