My husband liked being recumbent
He was lazy in all of his ways.
I never knew he was dying
As he kept on smiling.
What can I say in his praise?
I told him off for keeping me waiting
Not knowing his heart had a leak.
In a way I admired him
For keeping cabs standing
And being reluctant to speak.
He rarely addressed these cab drivers
But blessed them each with his gaze.
He sat with composure
And little disclosure…
Though sometimes his guns were ablaze.
When the drivers were told he had passed,
Some wept and my hands they each grasped.
Oh, my dear lady
We were all ready
To drive you to Hampstead quite fast.
The compassion from the humble and lowly
The love from the poor and the weak
What can I say for
We miss all his labours
If only we could at least hear him speak.
I held his left hand for an hour
I held it again for much more.
I felt a stiff tendon
Which refused any bending
And massaged it as I sat on the floor.
He never repeated me he loved me,
Nor how I should live when he’d gone.
I suppose by that time
He believed all was kind.
And his earthly endeavors were done.
It seems like a dream, a performance…
And I keep thinking life will resume.
I see no apparitions
Have no new intuitions
This is my life,I presume.
How my heart sings 