i, who was underneath you
i, who would bequeath to you
everything i ever had, if
i ever had any,
i, whose unlikely bust
sits atop your mantle;

it is i who is your lovely penguin-
sweet dove wrapped up in dust.

must i be immune,
always immune? to you,
the books, the cat, the moon?
must I hover near the cellar stair
and wait for night
to meet me there?

while you,
the great crusader of tirades,
makes omnipotent black
from shades
and crush again
any moment's rest
to be the best
(I am not the best)
must we stop
at kitchen tables
and wait til some other
pair is able?

this is not the best.