In the last happy years of my life
I took walks, including to the grocery store,
enjoyed being at home. I never tried to contact you.
I didn’t do anything. I was happy. Does this mean
I am good? Do I have a good soul? You
wanted to punish me, but could not. I was
too content; my revenge had been
a one time thing; harmless, really,
but effective. You weren’t able to get me.
And my love for you gradually faded
as I dreamed and wrote poems.
I used to be restless, looking
to see where the party was; I surprised myself
by how mellow I became. I didn’t do anything.
Even in my wild days, when wheels turned
beneath me, the wheels were active, not me.
I didn’t do anything. The follies
of my youth didn’t hurt anyone. I wrote letters
and cards and received letters and cards
that were quickly forgotten. Now, on my death bed,
in the hospital, looking out the window, occasionally
thinking of you, I finally must admit I’m slightly
unhappy. Yesterday, all at once, someone in the next room,
an old person who is probably also
on their death bed, began to sing.
I lay there listening. I didn’t do anything.