We Rarely Mark When They've Occured:
Last home run. Last pot roast
cooked by Momma’s hand.
Last blood-red sunrise staining
a favorite trout-stream. Last
healthy day. I rise from bed
to make my love a cup of tea.
Whack! A pole-axe severs us
forever. Even memories,
in their brilliant tie-dyed tee-
shirts, file aboard the future’s
747—gone. Like my last whiff
of plumeria—the last day
sprinklers woke me to the sough
of waves—my last papaya,
spooned like orange candy
from the green-and-yellow rind,
one dove hollering,
Who Hrrooo! as the rest
soothe, Keeokuk, Whee-oh wha,
which means, “Each
day is a new bride.” Like
the last time my pencil slides
across the paper, jabs
a period, and lifts, satisfied.