I’d like to think I am dead,
like an old Maine farm left to decay.
I crumble demurely into the river and grass.

Chickens gone by breakfast, you by crepuscule;
Rockwell never painted defeat or loss of limb
but never has he seen your lips,
cracked with solitude, fortitude, secrets, and
the faint music of a funeral pyre.

I always remembered you,
rising with the sun and whispers,
sweeping the porch, scattering leaves and harvest:
scalding coffee and soft hands on this October Day—
I cannot recall for the life of me—
what color were your eyes.

Now I am wrinkled, small, and tired,
left amongst gentle picket fences,
whitewashed walls, creased linen,
and every single day that I wasted those
silent early oatmeal mornings.

Just so you know and don’t worry, in case you’re worrying,
I still get chilly at night, and yes I kept your flannel shirt; and oh I forgot to say:
I cheated at Monopoly.

--my hands crack in the pastoral stillness.