Linda Stevenson #27 August 27 Precipitously

Precipitously

Learning that yet another one of us

has slipped away in the night,

loosed from the body’s hurt and limitations,

I carry this revelation

like a shopping bag

on the bus,

the difficult weight of it

my contribution

to general grief;

then head for the bookstore

and buy Les Murray,

a pristine hardback, fragrant as autumn.

His dedication is “To the Glory of God”.

I spend my pension coins

on coffees I don’t want or need

so I can sit alone,

sipping, tasting,

turning from poem to poem.