Penultimate

The last thing in your mouth:
a spoonful of scrambled egg.

Before that, the speckled loaf
of store-bought bread floated away

out the window, never
to be seen again. We fed

torn newspapers to a stove
of tin so sparks could make

little accords
with the rain-brushed night.

We did not get to say a proper
goodbye. We could have spun

a record and used that last
little loop of time.

Parables instruct; refusal
is more truthful.

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