Funeral Insurance Poem by Ernest Hilbert

We do not rhyme much anymore,
Yet here we are—a pair.
We hardly ever get to the store,
And find it hard to care.

We're fixed here in our tiny home,
The stair-chair stuck half way,
The blinds cocked, sofa seeping foam,
Neighbors long moved away.

At times, we can't stand each other,
Too slow, too uncertain to run
Off or start with another,
So, together, we're done.

It's years since we were really young,
But now we're really old,
Ancient as our house, which sits unsold,
Doorbell and phone unrung,

Me, cold and unrecorded as snow
That fell at sea, and you,
A flight, first listed overdue,
Then lost, long, long ago.