When I wake this morning

I am sorry I did not fall to the floor, 

did not sob, 

did not even 

flinch 

when I saw you flattened 

on that long table 

under the white flash bulb 

of morning. 

I am sorry you did not look human. 

You seemed a form shaped in wax. 

A sculpt without ribcage. 

I am sorry I gave you a quick 

once over and sat down, 

my hands not knowing where to pose, 

my eyes riveted by you, by knowing

you will not wake up,

would not open. 

I am sorry I did not know 

what you were thinking 

those last months, 

even those last years,

perhaps ever. 

I should have asked 

more questions. 

When I wake this morning, 

questions drift from my dream, 

golden autumn leaves, 

fabulating, metastasizing,

piling up just before

they vanish.

There is a time

There is a time in our marriage 

when the days move between us 

so sweetly, with such peace, they leave 

no footprint. 

They have the faint feel of dreams. 

They seem like mere glimpses into dreams. 

Mornings of cheese omelettes.

Afternoon strolls by the truth filled lake.

Microwaved leftovers for dinner 

in our laps by the TV.

He is the sauce 

and I the pasta. 

He is the Clint Eastwood movie 

and I am the popcorn. 

Now he is the water 

and I am the eyes.