December 17: Nota Bene

I crossed the street and there, stopped at the light,
A chartreuse Prius, like the one you drive,
Or drove, and in its mileage took delight
When we talked cars and you were still alive,

So, without thinking, I inclined my head
To see if you or wife were at the wheel,
And that’s when I remembered you are dead-
This fact, it seems, will always feel unreal.

But then again, I have no mantlepiece
Where, until recently, your stocking hung.
My thoughts of you come often with caprice
And scorn for puerile music, played or sung.

Though years have passed, your lines remain distinct
Unless erased, you’ll never be extinct.

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