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 one, 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 Barnet so 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,

Or 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.