This poem is made of life's fragments. It is not from my life's events, but after spending extended time writing and re-writing it, I believe it is a lot of me, and more than a bit of you.

The Last Drop

From your letter words tug at my grief and melt away useless armor covering my, "You just don't understand." Of course, you could never know the depth

and intensity of the love I lost at her death. I read on in shock to learn and accept that death has ended your decades of love and a forty year marriage.

I squeeze back rising tears and look down at drying spots on paper which reflect your every paragraph crying out to be consoled and comforted by an

old friend. What neither said nor thought at the time was how we handle
buried desires and needs from back when we were not brave enough for

love's consummation, plus the entangling fluid of living together broke and without regular work. I reach for the telephone and within a minute we are

planning to meet, to cry, to tell and retell our stories, and begin again,to
rekindle something that will survive until the very last drop of love is shed.


F William Broome 2008