Full of words with an expiration date,
like ‘forever,’ for example, and untimely goodbyes,
the undelivered mail, piling up on the top of the radiator casing in the hallway,
reminds me every time I pass by that I’ve always dreamed
of a slice of blueberry pie with ice cream,
and yet with my face exposed to the late winter sun
and a square of dark chocolate melting on my tongue,
all I can think about is the death of Seneca as told by Tacitus—a cold reminder
that life, at best, is nothing more than an occasional act
of unrequited kindness.