FIGURED OUT

FIGURED OUT

At my ripe and risky age
there’s a finely-measured need to see
that, across a finite-numbered life,
the all-important unequivocal sum
is greater than the parts.

Hearing I was ill
my ex-wife phoned
to wish me well.
Your eyebrows raise.
Ah, you say, there’s nothing strange in that,
’tis common courtesy indeed – so what?
Strange it is most certainly:
since for eight inert and silent years
we had shared not a single sorry word
until our son’s dire passing.
There is some meagre comfort in this:
when something precious is taken away
something’s added, however small.

Never one to calculate
I am forced to admit
You’ve added, not subtracted, son,
And the final formula fits.