When you take too many pills 
and you tell me, 
I wonder if I’m being terribly
selfish trying to keep you 
alive and maybe I shouldn’t drive
you to the hospital and I would
wake in the morning and you
would be next to me but gone.
 
On the way to the emergency room
I keep shaking you to try to keep
you awake. I’ve thrown the dog
into the car foolishly thinking
she will help keep you from nodding 
out. You stop your murmurings 
and I strain to hear if you are still 
breathing. It’s late at night
 
and we are moving fast. 
Most of the city blocks are dark.  
Here and there a porch light is on 
and closer to the hospital, some bars 
are open. I’m surprised how bright 
everything is. 
 
A few days later, I wonder what
I would have done with all your stuff.
The clothes wouldn’t be so difficult
but the stuffed elephants and 
the fragrances and the little Buddha 
shrine would be hard to vanquish. 
The ashes of your offerings
still in their heart-shaped box.