By J. Weintraub
She’ll be the last kitten I ever own,
and then the last cat before very long.
“Still, even nine lives won’t last forever,” you say.
“They’re easy to care for, and clean besides.”
But I’ve got just one life, and that one’s grown
old, my years sometimes, it seems, condensed down to days,
and I can barely take care of myself at times.
No, there’ll be no more cats once this one’s gone.
ii
This will be the last new car I ever own,
the last driven off the showroom floor, since long
before its sheen gets dulled, its fender dinged and scuffed,
its filters fill with muck and its carburetor leaks,
my valves and joints will stiffen like rusty hinges, creak
to a halt; lungs will wheeze and arteries clog shut.
Vision’s going; license is sure to be retired
just about the time that my warranty’s expired.
iii
This will be the last paprika I ever buy
(by the time the can before it was emptied, I
was seasoning my goulash with reddish dust),
and how banal is that? But that’s not the point, is it?
What’s banal when last things are being discussed?
The last hamburger I’ll ever taste? My last visit
with a friend? My last good sex (though that was some time
ago, when the planets were aligned and the juice flowed),
all as pertinent and valid, say, as this line
of verse, which could be the last one I’ll ever compose–
but no, I guess not; and so I continue to hope
that to all these things I’ll remain awake,
down to the last cloud, the last star I see, the last rose
that I sniff, the last breath I ever take.