Strange Friend Neither impatient nor loud He was very easy to ignore, at first. But he made himself felt In the deep of my gut, Not content, after all, in the shadows, Where he lurked Unseen by most But not by me. If I could not ignore him Perhaps I could know him. Make a friend of this friendless stranger. The friendless are eager To be friended. So now I have this nameless friend A friend for #life, he likes to say. He drapes himself about me And listens with both ears So patiently. So patient. But my new friend is jealous As new friends sometimes are. I must turn old friends away Even show my love the door. My friend has made it clear There’s room for only one— Including me. Now that no one’s left From the #life I’ve left behind My friend declares it time For dreaming. My friend is wise By closing them, my eyes are opened. The morning light springs hope eternal. But horizon light is setting sun My tunnel’s end has come Hope falls eternal. If I knew his name was death I did not know I knew it. And it can’t be said I did not choose To not know What I should have. That the friendless Are friendless For cause. And the bliss of ignorance Is no bliss At all.

Contained bountiful may be one’s capacity for love but boundless it is not. a reservoir can only hold so much and then some, perhaps but finally it is finite. infinite it cannot be in hard reality, love is contained not so much is pain. love is water pain is air the room for pain is always there. of pain there’s always more, for all is fair in love and war. but fair it does not feel. this kind of air does not heal it punches holes in heart and soul and leaves one holy but not whole. in the end do I believe that love will conquer fear? in the end perhaps I will, but not tonight not tonight. tonight my love is contained. but not so much my pain. #poem

Final Gift Final Gift I’ve earned the right to isolate, to gravitate towards solitude, to keep my circle tight and glued. The social country of my youth is now an island built for two. I cannot help but see the day, when “we” are just “you” and “me” again, one of us, finally, “late.” What a lovely way to misstate death, as if at any moment the dear departed will show, slightly out of breath, apologetic. “Sorry ... traffic.” I hope you go first, to be honest. (Not that I hope it happens soon – I dread it, actually.) It’s just that I will make the better widower. I will grieve you sharply, but this I already know, the longing I feel after you are gone will not surprise me. But if I am first to go, you have no idea how much you will be at sea, because you don’t realize now how much you love me. And I would rather you never find out than discover it that way.