I was not the last to touch her,
But I was the first to touch her after she had died
Everyone in the room looked over to me and I stood
And played a makeshift coroner. My fingers read
A boundingly absent pulse
She’s gone-gone, she’s gone-gone, she’s gone
and they let the kids go home afterward,
No sense in keeping us up after we had cried.
so she might feel us there. I still wonder if it was good
her last hours lying in bed;
perhaps we made It worse
We buried her a few days later
She would have liked the service
she might have joked that she
would get a bigger turnout than any of her boys.
but I guess she wasn’t there
or maybe that wasn’t really her.
Perhaps, I have too soon forgot the words
or most things she would have said or done
Even now I cannot remember her voice
nor what she used to wear.
She’s gone, she’s gone-gone, she’s gone-gone
