Poem

Things I’ll Miss The Most

There’s nothing quite like lying in bed on

a rainy morning making a

mental list like the one I’m about to

compile.  The sound of rain falling on the

roof is a good place to start since 

they're in no particular order.  I’m no

surgeon, after all, silently reviewing

the steps required to replace a

failing joint or sputtering organ.  

Your pies are on there, too, along with

your smile, the one meant only for

me.  Let’s not forget the sound of your

voice and the undeniable fact

that you smell like flowers in a soft,

warm rain.  The kids at age six, let’s say,

though I could make a compelling case

for two or sixteen or the days on which

they were born.  Maybe I will round it

out with spring, jazz, blank canvas, long bike

rides, the Sunday Times and the singular

sound of a word that leads, somehow,

to another poem.  But suppose heaven

is just a good restaurant, nothing fancy,

a neighborhood café with a decent

wine list and sidewalk tables.  Who knows?

The omnipotent waiter, friendly

though a bit indifferent, reads the specials

from a curled yellow index card not

unlike the mental one on which

I’ve made my list.  I order one of

everything and two glasses of good

Malbec.  You look lovely on this warm

spring evening as you smile and take

my hand across the table.  The air

is fragrant with flowers and, from

somewhere nearby, I can hear After

the Rain played softly.  The waiter

is back with our wine. I make a mental

note to leave Him a good tip at

the end of our eternal night out.