Seasons

The young man
shot for the stars.
Within two seasons,
he reached his mark.

His name and image
ride the tides of
notoriety,
accomplishment.

Food services
deposits their offerings
into the two black bags
on the doorstep.

The street dweller
pushes an overloaded
shopping cart, laden with
black bag sidesaddles
and ballooning filler
amid the traffic lane,
growling and shouting
to an invisible audience

"I know what I'm talking about.
I'm a lawyer!"
And he probably is.

I protest
the complications of our union,
necessities for
segregation of assets,
and rights of
non-marital partners.

Realization.
There are no assets;
no complications -
. . . . except in my mind.

I am empty.

You take my hand,
enfold me in an arm,
. . . . a gentle embrace.
You offer your ewer;
I raise my cup
holding the sides
ever so firmly,
ever so gently.

Your sweet wine
fills my hungry mouth.
I gulp greedily;
I drink deeply,
. . . . then ask for more.

You oblige.
I am filled.

What is this thing called death!