When you die
I will not marry any of our friends
or move to an enclave in Tempe.
I will buy a Cadillac
and bump its ignorant fenders
against parking lot light poles.
My eye sight will fail
and whole golden rod fields will blur
into daffodils, into chrysanthemums
though I will be standing still.
When you die I will set out the deep fryer
and waffle iron, both crock pots, the jar twister,
can opener, sauce pan and skillet,
like words along the sentence of the kitchen counter,
and I'll prepare the story of nourishment and of loss.
I will be old, even if you die tomorrow,
age faster than the zested limes
deflating in the afternoon sun.
I will dry my anger in small batches,
like you do with slivered almonds
on cookie sheets.
I will fold my sadness slowly into cinnamon.
And one day, after a last
cup of tea with your constant angel,
I'll dismiss him at the front door
with a burnt orange coat
and watch from the porch
as the crows lift him into your sky.