DRY CRIK Journal

No call to make –
no waiting until you awake,
we are freed from holidays,

you and me. Each busy signal left
on the answering machine,
I think of you as still

in the ‘museum’
as if it were jail,
as if it were penance

or punishment – your end
of days – final payment
for a practical life.

‘No services –’
you said, seeing beyond
the last drop of morphine

and the cemetery boxed
on top of Robert – just
the thought made you uneasy.

Few friends left,
the rest would come
from obligation.

Your last gift to Robbin,
no preparations
for the gathering after –

for the small talk and all
the emotional complications
you understood and hated

to endure. You are free
at last, I pray, from these –
we are not.