I thought you would never get sick
But the cancer, I wasn't surprised
All those times in the city
Were the happiest for me
I still thought you live after me
So much, I wanted you to be rich
With my archive
For you were my champion
A keeper of my dreams
I can picture you reading my poems
In a smoky bar
Like Emily Dickinson's sister
But now, who will be there after me?
Will my actual sister read my stuff?
No. shewould throw away my poems
In the blue box
Never to be read internationally