Last weekend

he cleaned the garage

and sorted the recyclables

and he separated

the plastic bottles from the glass

the green glass from the brown

and he put them into their

appropriate containers

and he stacked the papers

into perfectly arranged sheaves

of old tired news

and bound them with twine

and lugged them to the curb

…and mid-yard…

he  paused to expunge

a delinquent dandelion from their

recently clipped and finely fertilized

Kentucky Bluegrass lawn

and to adjust an errant sprinkler head

so as to insure proper irrigation

of the geranium bed

and he inspected the marigolds

for spider mites

and the chrysanths

for mealybugs

and the vine tomatoes

for flea beetles

after which,

he left his gardening gloves

on the arm of the porch swing

and his rubber muck boots

on the mat

by the front door

and he left his house key in the

candy dish on the entryway bench

his pipe in the agate ashtray

and heated a kettle for tea

and drew water for a bath

and then he

laid on the sofa to rest

and so…

…it was just…

as his widow told me

his time.

4 thoughts on “Phil

  1. Someone said that “it was his time” about my fried that killed himself. Funny his name was Phil too. Maybe they got mixed up and the Universe was just out for Phil’s this moth.

    • I am sorry for the loss of your friend. The Phil that I wrote about in this poem passed nearly a year ago. His death was a reminder to me of the fragility of life. He was, in fact, a few years younger than I, and had been in good health. There was no reason to think that the day described here would be his last.

      I thank you for reading.

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