One of these days
I'm going to come into my room,
put a concert on the radio,
read, fall asleep, and not wake up.
In the morning, Brenda will ask me,
through the door, if I want any gruel,
and I will not respond. She doesn't listen
to me anyway. When the gruel is ready, she'll yell,
"Gruel." It's half-seven grain cereal and half-oatmeal,
with whole-milk organic yogurt, blueberries,
cinnamon, and tupelo honey. When she leaves
for work she'll holler, "Bye," like a fishwife.
When she gets home no lovely gourmet supper
will be prepared, and she will know that something
isn't kosher. She'll come in my room and I'll be
slumped in my chair, as happy as a dead pig in the sunshine.
If only she had listened. She could have gotten off of work.
She could have had a day of leave. Bereavement time. Instead,
she worked away, not knowing I was no longer there to appreciate it.
I get up and take a leak. Write a poem and go to bed.