Last Times

The last time I saw you
you gave me your memoirs.
It was a ball of short strings tied together.
It was a catalogue of names.
You said -
I hope you like it.

The last time I saw you
was in Chicago.
You told me the story
of every knick knack on your mantle,
every tiny piece of glass.
It was carrying two cartons of milk up the stairs.
It was some words about God
and then some words about Oprah.

The last time I saw you
was Christmas Day.
We ate turkey and said
the cities where we lived,
the lives that we lived there.
After dinner you recited
to the living room fire
Out out brief candle.