ON A WEDNESDAY

for Mitzi

She died.
On a Wednesday…
gnarled cold ball –
fetal reminder
of a once vibrant woman.
Contorted as the butt
of a barely lit cigarette,
extinguished quietly,
no more.
Her remnant smolder,
vaporous soul
uncurls its custody in spiraled smoke,
leaning inward, twirling
upwards,
before disappearing
into dingy ceiling overlay gray
sanatorium sky.

My, my my.
How swiftly she left,
with not finality,
or sacred pause -
that contingent prerequisite,
beckoning us goodbye.

And oh,
how the lengthy days gradually turn,
as weighty stale pages of parchment;
unfinished manuscript,
yellowing in her absence,
shelved.

One more to file in six feet unearthed,
before putting away the shovels…
dipped in bitter tear-stained quills,
but destined to reunite,
perhaps waiting impatiently for the last chapter,
all-story’s end,on a Wednesday.