The Last Time I Saw Paris, by Tom Disch

Will I never see Paris again? It may well be.
Or Salina Cruz? Almost certainly.
But London: surely I’ll live that long.
And Ischia, Naples, Capri—I must see them again,
Although I don’t know when.
Not tomorrow, but soon.

And which are the disches I have unwittingly
Tasted a final time? Stewed tripe? I can live
With that. Various fruits peculiar to Brazil.
But not, I beg of fate, Aunt Cece’s lemon pudding.
For I mean to make some more.
Not tomorrow, but soon.

And which are the friends I’ll see no more,
Whether by their demise or mine,
Or merely through the slow attrition
Of concern: what are their names?
If I knew, I’d phone.
Not tomorrow, but soon.