The sun announces itself through
the slatted bathroom window and
lays claim to the random grooves
of my weathered wooden floor, making
note of the dirt and debris that’s
settled there, the crumbs and seeds,
the gravel and grit amongst the
grains of scented litter from the
cats who can’t seem to keep it in
the damn box.
And yet when the deathbed day
comes, as you know it will, my wish
list masquerading as regret will
be of bedding my blue-eyed love
one more night, for another bourbon
And Coke with an old friend, one
last meal of mushrooms and shallots
warmed in olive oil, another book
from the unread pile, another neglected
record rescued from the dollar bin,
Of extra innings World Series games,
of final inside jokes with the boy,
of one more and one more and one
more, of anything but a dirty wooden
floor and the expectant broom
waiting in the corner.
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