Last home run.  Last pot roast
          cooked by Momma’s hand.
                    Last blood-red sunrise staining

a favorite trout-stream.  Last
          healthy day.  I rise from bed
                    to make my love a cup of tea.

Whack!  A pole-axe severs us
          forever.  Even memories,
                    in their brilliant tie-dyed tee-

shirts, file aboard the future’s
          747—gone.  Like my last whiff
                    of plumeria—the last day

sprinklers woke me to the sough
          of waves—my last papaya,
                    spooned like orange candy

from the green-and-yellow rind,
          one dove hollering,
                    Who Hrrooo! as the rest

soothe, Keeokuk, Whee-oh wha,
          which means, “Each
                    day is a new bride.”  Like

the last time my pencil slides
          across the paper, jabs
                    a period, and lifts, satisfied.