After the Funeral
by John Wood
She hangs her coat by his,
(The hall tree is overburdened),
hides his tired boots in a spare closet,
(They can still call me Mrs. Rogers),
broods over lukewarm tea.
She removes a sterling band to clean up.
A wasted kettle hisses into the sink.
Plates clatter, spoons tine, a faucet sobs.
A drawer is opened and inside she finds
a faded love note.
Her brow furrows and a vacant pair of sockets
reflect in the countertop.
Her gaze rises to the window.
The eye burns on the horizon
and light sifting through the branches of an evergreen
reveals a frail brown skeleton.
No more kisses on the neck.
No more love notes. Barren.
(I will die in a rocking chair).
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