Poems from the Interim: All I've Eaten Today is Cookies

All I’ve eaten today is cookies
Probably 10 of them
And one bagel
I’m the picture of health

You come home and I pretend
To be a sensible person
Someone who got work done today
We make roasted potatoes
And burgers with cheese

Later I sit on the couch
Reading a poem about a man
Riding his bike by a graveyard
And imagining the dead
Coming along for a ride

And I think for a moment
About where I’d bury you if
You died - God forbid.
(I mentally make the sign of
the cross, though you’re
The one who was raised
Catholic)

I’d have to take your ashes
To our beach in Hawaii,
I conclude,
though that raises a
number of issues
Can I take ashes on a plane?
How long would I have to wait
On the beach,
How early would I have
To wake up,
To be alone to spread your ashes?

It doesn’t matter.
I’d be a mess then, anyway,
and I'd probably never sleep again
A shell of myself, a walking mass
Of dead carbon
Broken, so broken.

More broken than I feel now
Because as sad as I get
You still make me smile
When you swat my butt as you
Walk by

My heart is starting to thump
In my chest, my throat's closing,
so I move on from this thought.
Don’t you know
we’re never going to die?

I finish my poem,
then read another,
Then get up for two
more cookies
And a glass of milk.