For Nicki Bonomo
I guess you didn’t want to mar your memory,
so I tell myself that’s why you won’t answer.
I tell myself that’s why you don’t text.
What would we say
Now that everything is so insignificant?
I guess you didn’t believe me
when I said if your meds made you a zucchini
I would not be ashamed to be seen with you.
If you couldn’t walk anymore I would wheel you,
and if you couldn’t speak,
then I would order you something tasty.
You said you wanted to be in a cave with Wilson,
so I bought a competition volleyball
and slapped a rosy handprint face on it.
I left it swinging on your side view mirror
because you weren’t home.
I understand you don’t want to talk about death,
and diseases and drooling,
don’t want to talk about how your body is deteriorating,
but while you’re on your island
waiting to die,
I’m alone in our good times,
bobbing on a raft a quarter mile off the coast of your pretend island.
You wish on falling stars and tunnels and birthday candles,
And I’m the only one who knows what for,
(And I’m sorry that my problems never match yours.)
I don’t wish on tossed pennies anymore, but I pray
for Nicki Bonomo.