THE LAST POEM

 In our bathroom, above the hush-flush toilet,

Is a tinted steel engraving of Naples 1820.

The city must have looked like this to Keats

When, half dead and sea-sick, he first looked

On Italy: a nun waves to a cartsman, two dogs

At his donkey's heels: a few buildings are plastered,

With vineyards, on the slopes: a wisp of smoke

Ascends from the cone of Vesuvius. One day,

I imagine, that volcano will erupt -- spewed

Ash, followed by lava, cascading down the staircase,

Will settle throughout the house and fix us in position.

Later, when excavators come to this Herculaneum,

I hope they find us, disposed around the kitchen table,

Thus: son, Ross, in his miniature Giants' football uniform,

A silver note still trilling from his flute: Anna,

Daughter, astride a dream horse, drawing curlicues

With a bright red Magic Marker: Katka, wife,

Adorned with the burning jewel I gave her,

Creating savories at the Hotpoint stove:

And I, in my mauve velvet bathrobe, writing,

With this purple pen, on asbestos parchment,

The last poem before the poems to come.