Why not go over and see Aunt Maude.
She was told yesterday she’s dying
of cancer, and drop in her afghan
lap a big box of pecan fudge
made by monks in Kentucky,
silent monks who make
fudge and fruitcake and pray
all day and rise again
all hours of the night
and pray some more, and then
drop in her lap as well a box
of her other passion,
a crossword puzzle, not
500 pieces, the kind she buys
at Walmart, but a lollapalooza
of a thousand pieces and help her
laugh today and live tomorrow
because your aunt won’t die
if she has fudge to eat
and a puzzle to bring to life
on her dining room table
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