Because I awaken
at 6:19
to pain
as if my heart
were a wishbone
pulled apart,
I am not surprised
when they climb
the stairs
to tell me
you are dead.
Now I understand
what fear is:
waiting
for the messenger
to tell me what
I know.
                        

You come to me in a dream
dressing for your pre-dawn ride,
just as you did on the day
that you died, awakening me
when you turn on the light
to find some missing socks.
I scolded you then,
but now I plead, appeal to reason:
since you know
what’s going to happen
please don’t go.
You touch my hair, pull on your jersey,
ride again into that dark morning.
                        

I am furious to find
you’ve planned a gala party
to make up, I guess, for the huge one
that you missed, inviting even guests
who betrayed you after death.
I don’t want them in my house,
I scream.  But you say, no harm,
I’m back now, happy and forgiving
as you were in life.
Angry still, I take up another subject:
If you ride that bike again I will divorce you.
You’re not convinced, so I continue:
I’d rather be divorced than have you dead.