Is This My Last Ferry Trip?

Is this the last time I’ll admire the guys

in their neon-yellow slickers, guiding us

to our parking spots before we head up

 

two flights to the passenger deck,

to the cafeteria where a man in a black derby

and black suspenders nods and smiles

 

as he nibbles popcorn? In honor of this maybe

last trip to San Juan Island, the last time

I hear that somber wail of a horn,

 

I’m gonna go see if there’s anything I can eat,

and of course there is: Ivar’s clam chowder,

just what the nutritionist ordered:

 

extra cream, extra butter, tiny potatoes I easily swallow.

Two spoons: one for me, one for the man

otherwise known as my personal

representative. When the time comes, he will help me administer

the cocktail that kills, but until then it’s The Marvelous

Mrs. Maisel, his book about Vronsky and Anna,

my book about the journey to the Higgs boson,

while our daughter calls to remind us

to take pictures of things

she can draw—a sprig of rose hips, a clump of serviceberries.

A deer she nicknamed Chewy. Bellies full of chowder,

we almost forget one of us is dying.