James
A peculiar man he brushed his teeth before
and after each meal and slept on clean bed sheets
each night, a full set (including pillow covers)
for each day of the week. A bath in the mornings
as well as at night was customary,
on weekends an additional soak after lunch.
Each year he bought an entirely new wardrobe
from the cobbler to the tailor
and donated the old.
At the firm he was a ruthless senior partner
with a healthy dose of quirks that became accepted due to results.
As for home life it was minimal and confined
to his study where custom mahogany shelves attempted
to hold the library with its damless intake of books.
He attended every musical, theater, play, and symphony
in the city, alone, and would be the first to stand and clap.
Considering himself a gourmand he ate out at a small selection
of fine restaurants on friday and saturday, with every other meal
being home-cooked, aided by two visits to the Cordon Bleu academy.
It was thus understandable the shock
when the doctor informed him of the
diagnosis and updated life expectancy.
More tragic than discovering his expiration date
was the lack of appetite. He hired a chef to do
the cooking. After some time he renewed his
wardrobe to fit his new frame.
He had never been under the illusion that he would
read every book, watch every play, listen to every
symphony but a small voice inside of him had rooted
for that goal these last few decades.
After tidying up the legal paperwork of dying he resumed
his old habits. He found that he did not look at life through
a new lens as he had never taken it for granted.
It was after eating a shellfish risotto, while reading in the study,
that death’s fingers danced along the mahogany shelves,
skimming through the titles before calling his name.
Foggy Summer Morning
Mary made a habit of walking up and down the street,
once in the morning and once in the evening,
her faded-pink umbrella protecting against the sun.
Most days she strolled to the one cafe in town,
introducing herself to anyone inside,
most of them having known her for fifty years.
Carl is waiting for me back home so I gotta be quick,
she’d say. And after a nice visit she walked home,
passing the cemetery where her husband laid,
to a home her memory still somehow held onto.
The years took Mary.
Now she walks only the streets
of my memories, which time will also take,
though I will meet her above as she strolls,
once in the morning and once in the evening,
no need for an umbrella here.
