Widow


She still reads silently
on the left edge of her king sized bed,
prolonging the shock of the brisk
morning air creeping in from
her half open window, the cool breeze
gently blowing the curtains away
from the glass.

She sighs looking to her right
at the empty sheets tightly wrapped
beneath the mattress, and cancels out
the lack of heavy breathing with
the fizzing of the radio.

There’s no one playing solitaire for hours
on end at the computer in the kitchen,
no one to make her hazelnut coffee
in the morning, no one smoking a cigar
out on the front porch keeping warm
by a fire started by fat sticks.

She creases the corner of the buff page,
sets her book down, and pulls the
sheets over her head shutting her eyes
tightly forcing a tear to fall down her
flushed cheek of memories.

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