On Our Deathbed
When you are 93
breathing in a ventilator beside me
I will still say to you
what I said at 33:
“You took too damn long.”
Maybe you’ll say, “60 years!”
And I’ll say, “We could’ve had 63.”
Your smile lines will stretch
while I think about 27, when I sat
wondering if you needed a match
to see the roadmap in pitch-black.
There were no streetlights
on Flatbush at midnight
when I determined to become moonlight
to live like a wild flare blazing on
so you’d notice the flicker of flames
guiding you home. 
