Your Last Day

I wasn’t prepared
for that last day
like I should have been—
all those years ago
when the new year
meant a new job
and more money — and no you
to talk to anymore
as we sipped our morning coffee
from those mugs you made
out of red clay—
and I broke one
a couple of years ago
and almost cried because
it meant so much
and I knew I only had
three more mugs
(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 the poems
I wrote about you,
I wasn’t prepared to hear
that today was your last day
and there won’t be another chance
if I ever change my mind.


DeMaris Gaunt

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