The wind is shifting all the leaves

The wind is shifting all the leaves.

The porch is cold, the garden—well, it grieves.

The cigarette is in the jar,

the water’s gone black like tar.

I finally got the punchline now,

it’s three years late. I don’t know how

I missed it. He was sorry, at the wake.

It was a clumsy thing for him to make—

a joke, I mean.

The snow is starting, small and white.

I think I’m going to lose the light.