Blue Lake

BLUE LAKE droplets rained into the blue lake of his face. dust might fly from erasers, no— they’re trapped in a purple jar. even if released, they cannot capture her personality traits. dry bones can be pieced together but without a blast of air to the nostrils the soul lies in a heap. death is an empty room with no hope of a skeleton to clatter dishes in the sink. he goes on and on and on… he wonders why the cardinals and does still dance at his birdfeeder, as if happiness was just inches away. he downs his martini then another olive is spent thinking of a mere few months ago. cosied up under a blanket the light from the t.v. in her eyes; her photo and urn watch him observing t.v. without her. she cannot turn away, cannot dry his tears— both feel utterly helpless in the circumstance of death. 8/8/2021