In the fridge I find a jar
of pineapple-mang0 jam. It’s been here 
since last year when my late companion 
died. He used to like it on his toast.  
 
The place he now resides is beyond        
            my understanding.  
At least, I’m sure he isn’t going blind
any more. His eyes are fine, 
though I don't know what they can find.
 
He doesn’t seem to want the news
 he used to ask for when he called
from one of his excursions to Montreal 
or Israel where his cronies, Gideon 
            and Pnina, dwell.  
(They miss him 
but they’re doing well.) 
 
I probably should throw the jam away.
I tasted it. Too sweet.
I wish someone would come and finish it.