Psalm

When you died of heart failure and a small cough
I was eating a sandwich, which is not unheard of

Because I like sandwiches.

It was late, and cold, and blankets were brought
And piled, and your wife, half-ghostly with dementia,
Put in the crook of your arm the plush dachshund

To hug, as if you could stir and reach
Out through the darkness.

Near the butcher block there is a letter for you,
Which I could not send.

On my phone there is a note to call after 6:00
And ask about the meteors and snow.

Dear window left closed, dear beach stone and sand,

Dear desk chair and vacant pen
I’m sorry