The Widower
She still fills her housecoats
on cold nights.
The cat will always be
the shadow of her hand.
He will dwell in this home
that she wove around his recliner,
scrimshawing each thought
with her presence.
He mourns, not at the cemetery,
but from the other side
of a double bed.
He rearranges nick-knacks
by not touching anything.
He does however
place some sepia moments
in a shoe box
she has provided.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2020
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment