I want to tell You I am sorry
On Your last Sunday, 
You chopped onions carrots celery enough
To last and
Hung a shelf in the bathroom and
Replaced hooks in the kitchen that we’d been making do
For years

I was supposed to be the one who made Plans and 
wiped clean the Slate of 
last week’s livings

Every Sunday
Your materials and my machinations made a mundane magic
Out of living

I wasn’t prepared for no more Sundays, and the vegetables,
they went rotten in the fridge.
I looked at them for days, gutted, begging them to give me

One. Last. Chance. 

to be saved.