selling the household furniture


she — a memory
in an urn
he — with no
memory of yesterday

grandma’s painting
thirty-five dollars

the nightstands
twenty-five each

the rug they
bought in Turkey
two fifty

the stories
of their lives
flutter out
the door





Dance


she sits against the wall
a quiet beauty, this
dance such a foreign thing

and he sees her, this
handsome young soldier
so far from home

now holding hands in
their final moments, this
spark of love never dies





The Art of Living 
 

she sweeps her hand 
with the breath of life 
marks us soul to soul 
 
paints her image 
on our hearts 
 
we carry her canvas 
this weightless weight 
reflected in our eyes 





The Art of Dying


as you lie there
a memory of
your beauty

glows in you in
the silent shell
of your ancient frame

a glimmering in your eye
barely showing you
are still there




​
Memory at Eighty-Four


Sit and read the morning paper, coffee steaming in the cup. That’s not good, California’s in a drought. That little boy is still missing.

Hello, who are you?

I’m your nurse.

Where’s my wife?

She’s gone, today one month.

I love her. I miss her.

    reset

Sit and read the morning paper, coffee steaming in the cup. That’s not good, California’s in a drought. That little boy is still missing.

Hello, who are you?

I’m your nurse.

Where’s my wife?

She’s gone, today one month.

I love her. I miss her.

    reset