Two minutes, lying down,
index fingers pressing the corners
of each eye after you maneuver
a single drop in.

You add the lying down part
to the prescription, along with
the timer on the iPad and its
serene bell, the same one that
once reverberated around your
late poet friend’s living room,
she a slight and graceful presence
with a bunch of poets reviewing
their drafty drafts, 10 minutes
apiece, the gentle sound signaling
time to move on!

And each time you hear it now,
the twice-a-day tintinnabulation,
lying on your bed, finger pressure
preventing the drops from sliding
down your nasal passages, you
wonder if she heard such a chime
near her end, nudging her on.

Today, though it is noon,
you hear the hooooo, hoo-hoo
of mourning dove (which for years
you spelled morning) outside your
window, and you smile, eyes
closed, stinging a bit as they do,

and when the chime bongs its
soft bong, you lie there for a bit,
listening to it diminish, knowing
that it will not sound again
until it’s completely drifted
away.

So you wait for it,
like the dove, like her smile,
to circle round again,
not wanting in the least
to move on.

•••

(in memory of Marie Reynolds)