The Final Word
Do you hear my hand upon the door?
I have a key that works just as before.
The narrow bed grows cold until my visit,
and I, as years of old, have come to sit
again beside your fire of bitter blue.
Stay still with me and reminisce a few,
our discourse now a long soliloquy,
that issues at some length alone from me
while mute remonstrance simmers silently,
as I at last the final word am given,
and you, my dear, must lie at last and listen.