One day, my fellow
occupant of our cell,
you’ll cease to follow
in my steps, to tell
me, looking through
our single window,
about whatever view
you’ve chosen for the day.
Somehow, absurdly,
I’d foreseen collapse,
my deserted body,
our almost rhyming corpse,
and that you might walk away
jauntily singing
to eternity. But, on the day,
you only whisper, ‘I’m moving
to another cell, my dear.
I’m sorry that we’re losing
touch. The last sound you’ll hear
will be the door closing.’
