In that little house far from the road
you made new left casserole and waited
while we marched on the induction center
and drove all night across the western slope
to Grand Junction the day
King was killed.
I still see you in your long blue denim dress,
a frontier wife of the sixties and later, after monogamy
lay smashed into the separate pieces
of our lives and you and John split,
you still smiled and the casserole was
as good as ever.
I knew you were going to die, we all did,
but we kept it far away in a quiet distance,
because you wanted it there.
Finally, we lost touch and never found it again
except asleep in the collective fist of memory
where it remains the only touch we ever keep-
the smell of a casserole, the small house,
the blue denim of the dress,
the last smile of goodbye.