In a Dream

by Daniel M. Rutberg

My cartoon heart, with a zigzag crack,
in a dream, still calls your name.
The scroll that holds the doings of our fifty years,
on spindly legs, walks aimlessly in circles and does the same.

I nursed you when you fell ill—
I’ve no one else to blame.
I tried so hard to catch you
when you would faint away.
I tried so hard to save you,
but death would have its day.

So tell me, my dear one,
what am I to do?
Since you have been gone,
the hands of time upon my clock
have chased each other round and round.
The pages of the months and years
are flying off the calendar
and are piled high in a mound.

I wake with aches and groans,
and newfound insults to my person
each day abound.

If you were here to hold me tight
and kiss my fevered brow,
if you were here to chide me
as I felt sorry for myself,
I know I’d stop my caterwauling
and get busy
with the list of honey-do’s and don’ts.

So I shake off the clouds of slumber
and rise from the bed—
to face the day as fiercely
as you always did.

And I will see you once again
when my head hits the pillow,
and I set the lights to dim.