{..}
i heard the days numbered then
the years already now
at least not the hours
anyhow
i heard “you’ve got mail”
two and one was scolding
the other informing
how
these golden days of billowing
daughter’s colorful cloths
on my old fashioned solar
dryer
these few days remaining
tho few are the moments
precious are they
living art
O Kathleen i know i must
we all must go leave
and none will know
the day or hour of our own
departure
Michael will meet you at the door
mother and father will laugh and smile
Tom is playing a harp now?
what
does “Heavens to Purgatroid”
mean anyhow?
follow me Finder he knows the way
to hell and back and’s here to say,
“It’s all good
anyway”
or She might say,
“We all go home,
or nobody does.”