Before life ended, proof that
you can't climb the rope of life
with greased thighs. ( Surprise!
I meant that.) I slid to the ground.

You weren't there.  Being There, to plagiarize a title from Kozinski, is not
the act of a shuffled life.  You had
gloves to touch me with and I saw the
rubbed toe of your captoed still
shinning.  One foot up and hurry
now. Watch me watching you.

I slipped. Startled by the squeal
of your Italian leathers I fell off.
No garden here.  Far from
a successful climb I saw you
lurch in derision.  I couldn't reach
you anymore.  A simple mark, a
symbol perched like a poem
on sadness.  

I wrote this for you. My  
sadness wraps around
tomorrow.  
I make goodbye
go like the wind.


Caroline Shank
April 6, 2022