You'll walk a long long way in the dark

without me, despite me.  You'll take charge

of the gold and diamonds, the dead checks,

pictures and the emergency supplies.

I'm not the easy answer anymore, 

not the num-chuk or the plastic pants.

By this time next year, your tears will dry.

You will walk up to the house 

one last time and see it for just a moment

the way it was and will be forever more.

Take heed, you'll rewrite this poem.