For S.W.

You’ve gladly kept an old beloved shirt
Although it’s long gone ragged at the seams
And just as proudly used a jar, once washed,
To store your pens and pocketknives and creams—
And yet, you seem less driven to conserve
My little gifts, which might yet serve you well.

But I still breathe!—more versatile than shreds
Of static matter. Why, then, toll the knell
Upon my useful life within your sphere?
Has all your thrifty ethos gone so lax
That you would fail to find, or seek, a worth
In me, past love?  Think: valued to the max,
I might still please as helper, healer, friend;
Advisor, ear . . . admirer to the end.