Your Last Day

Your Last Day

I wasn’t prepared

for that last day

like I should have been—

the new year meant a new job

and more money and no you

to talk to anymore

as we sipped our coffee

from those mugs you made

out of red clay,

and I broke one

a few years ago

and almost cried because

it meant so much and

I knew I only had

three more chances

to keep you forever

in this solid form

with those shallow spirals

made by your fingers

as the clay spun inside your palms—

and even though I knew

I’d never give you these poems

I wasn’t prepared

to hear that this

was your last day

and there won’t be another chance

if I ever change my mind.




DeMaris Gaunt


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