I was taught
by Barbara Daniels
to use the word oh in poems
no more than five times in my life. I’ve
squandered one in the first stanza here.
Interjections jiggle a bit as they wait.
Certain substitutes—eh, uh, ah—are
heard among the shuffle-tap rhythms
of my dancing or is that sound my slippers
skipping away? Ah, slippers, you lovely
companions, loyal, oblivious,
drenched in soft colors, stained
with droplets of coffee like blooming
forget-me-nots, I want you to listen
in my final hours. I’ll have the soft
harshness of my breath and a few words
left to whisper. It’s been proved that
breaking hearts make quiet noises
only rodents can hear. Maybe
my final utterance will be noticed
by you and a mouse pausing its gnawing,
then slowly starting again.