Rondele for a Remorseful Man

by Patricia Caspers

When Death is all grown up at last
you’ll find her clothes in swimming pools,
some threads unraveled, returned to spools,
night colors bleached, bone buttons lost.

Don’t call her name or dare to ask
if she’s the thief who stole your cool.
When Death is all grown up at last
you’ll find her smoke in billiard halls,

sweet-scented shawls misplaced in cabs.
Don’t look her up in address books
or send a box of licorice pearls.
She’ll not forgive your curdled past
when Death is all grown up at last.

Notes:

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