A simple thing, no simpler than this:
the rising, falling of a breathing chest.
When gone, nothing is missed as much as this.

Another simple thing added to this:
the rise-fall thumping of a beating chest.
A simple thing, no simpler than this.

One day he laid, displayed, without a hiss,
his movements stilled, in frozen final rest.
When gone, nothing is missed as much as this.

I stared intently, watching for just this:
a hiccup or a twitch, a laugh in jest.
A simple thing, no simpler than this.

The days we played and laughed in sunny bliss,
I never once took notice of his chest.
When gone, nothing is missed as much as this.

And since the lid closed shut, this much I miss:
a simple kiss, a hug, the warmth of breast.
A simple thing, no simpler than this:
When gone, nothing is missed as much as this.

(C)2008, Christos Rigakos