Breather

At six-fifteen on Sunday evening,
April sixth, Two-thousand-eight, while
cleaning out my coffee-maker in

the sink, I looked up from the running
tap and realized I’d lost my fear
of death. I can’t think how to give

the depth and breadth of it in any
other way than this: to say that it seemed
simply true that one day I would lose

my view and then skidoo. The coffee-
maker waits for me to push its button,
dawn, tomorrow – but there's no pain

or sorrow at my certainty one morning
it will wait in vain. If I should die
before I wake, not a thing will quake.

You’ll go on and I will not. And then there’ll
come a day or night when you won’t
either. Sit with me: let's take a breather.


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