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.