The pen out of ink, the milk turned sour

the last paper towel on the roll

used to mop up a splatter of soup

 

Do the small daily deaths prepare us

like a beginning marathoner ambling around

the block before she attempts a mile

 

Should we get used to all the dying

shivering in shrouds, meditating in graveyards

like Tibetan monks, hearing the eerie howl

 

Of coyotes, inhaling the stench of rot-

ten eggs as shadows stretch like sluggish

lions across freshly turned earth

 

Spending years seeking mortality’s residue

in the park, on church steps, under a bridge, reading

obituaries of strangers, imagining their last moments

 

Until death is merely a handshake across an abyss

or a bus that stops and you step on

as though visiting an old friend

 

Look! a winter moon silvers the sky

a fox settles under frosted shrubs

a stilled moment in narrowing light