Too Late

She doesn’t know me anymore, this wife of fifty years.
The house of flesh, once comely, always vital, stands bereft
Of mistress, yet not all my prayers nor my unmanly tears
Can breach that vault where wit has flown to raise the one who left.

And does it wait for me, this same returning to the crib?
Though would I know or care? For clearly it would assuage
This grief, this guilt. But no! The soiled bed-linen and the bib
Do not bear thinking of. Please God, let death erase my page.

Death’s an ordeal but death’s by far the kindlier condition.
Painful but clean, swift surgeon’s cut, with time’s healing innate,
Not like this wound that tears afresh each day. This apparition
Mocks her outward form but never can her substance emulate.

Uncomprehended now, why do I come? In reasons night
She draws no comfort, needs none. Penance could it be? Amends
For all I took for granted, and demanded as of right?
This show of love’s so futile, much too late, but there it ends.