What I Like
I like it when an afternoon
passes into evening unannounced.
Hours I don’t have to count,
hours I don’t have to account for.
It’s a strange affliction,
this compulsion to translate
consciousness into words,
then send those words—where?
Toward you, my audience
of strangers. The work requires
great effort to pursue,
and years and years of hours.
That’s why I like it when
dinner’s cancelled, or the forecast
tells people to stay home,
and I especially like it when
my housekeeper yells goodbye
on her way out the door.
* * * * *
Elegy
An elegy reveals the current
state of the grief. Therefore,
I cannot write an elegy.
Grief is a shape-shifter.
I’d have to chase not only it
but all its stand-ins,
and chase them forever.
* * * * *
The Second Year
For a year I felt nothing.
Spasms of tears, then again nothing.
I sent his scarves to one daughter,
the fox painting to another.
Changed all the downstairs paint colors.
Put the martini glasses out of sight.
The second year looked back
on the first year, and saw a widow.