What I'm going to miss is salmon patties, the salmon
held together by potato pancake mix, sugary, vanilla
cappucinos, black nylon legs, lace bras, a bed as soft
as sand next to a window looking out on the garden,
just a little cold air in winter, as I snuggle under the
feather comforters, cool air creeping in the summer
night night through the screens, hot showers just a
little too hot at first, then perfect, especially in winter,
drives in the country, especially through radically hilly
country full of lagoons, dreaming of the house I'll never
have on top of a hill looking down on hills, and then always
the distant forest, my kids and kids' kids, Boston
Commons, the new part of the Louvre, Boca Ciega canal
in St. Petersburg, Mahler's Das Lied von der Erde and
Rachmaninoff's second symphony, Chilean grapes and
Chirimoya ice-cream in Peru/Bolivia, your arms and goodnight
kisses, having breasts and a fun pouch between my legs,
the eleven o'clock news, a cup of Irish Creme liquor before
bed, not that there'll be anyone there to miss
anything.