I have a form on which I am to list last wishes,
final admonishments. How to divide my worldly
goods, portion them like I might a pie or quiche—

I look around but can't imagine the absurdity
of listing every book, every bauble I ever
bought, every unworn shoe; service for tea,

anything in this life that gave however
brief a pleasure. As for the money—
mostly enough, sometimes lacking; never

the jackpot, a windfall to stun me.
I have a mortgage on a house that homes
me and mine: green trim, yard with fig tree

as dear as if this was an Eden. All on loan:
tear-studded planks, every love that shone.  

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