Coming downstairs
I saw that my wife, before driving to her yoga,
had sweetly left lunch on the counter for me.
There was a bit of fish left over from last night,
not bad if not exciting, the dwarf tomatoes
that made a near-bruschetta on my bread,
and radishes, because she knows I like them
with my toast and butter. The Pavoni, recently repaired,
made me a nice espresso, not far beneath
the famous coffee from the Tazza d’Oro.
Done, I stretched on the sofa in the den
for my customary doze, and there I slid,
snug, into my death: no doctors, no hospitals.
I had my wish.