Michaela Schroeder

“Good morning.”

You said,

brushing long brown

hair away with

small, peach colored hands.

 

“Good afternoon.”

You said to me,

each day I came home

from school, from work,

from the life I lived

apart from you.

You asked,

“How was your day?”

I always remained silent

to keep the world of you

and the world of me

separate, isolated, free.

 

“Good evening.”

You said, to me,

as you heaved out

those last words

of life

in death.

 

Good morning,

good afternoon,

good evening,

and finally, after all these years,

fat on wasted time,

good night.