She will:
Acknowledge her lover,
Mourn for his death,
Don a pricey
Little black dress,
Tap her heart
As a symbol of sorrow,
(But stop by tomorrow)
For mascara will run.

She will:
Wrap his possessions,
Toys, trinkets abhorred
Bounding aplenty
In boxes they go.
Under the bed,
The crumbs of his bread
Straight to charity,
For she wants them no more.

She will:
Note his death,
By the next harvest,
Clean out his room
Before the first crook,
Take down his pictures,
Head to the bank,
To see what he’s left
Inside his checkbook.

He lays buried
Beneath the earth,
Beneath the fallen snow
Snoring softly
Wondering,
‘Now where
Could she go?’

The birds perch high
Branches whispering blues
Struggling desperately
To give him a clue.

Look at the grass
That grows in between
Your fingers
Will grasp
Just what we mean.

She will:
Argue a storm
Stake her claims
Sign off on his forms
To box in her name.

He lays slant
Bent on curiosity
Chucking softly
At his mistress’ animosity.

The birds
Strain their ears
If they hadn’t been birds
They wouldn’t have feared—

She will:
Drive home
Empty handed,
Pan handler
And swindler.

He lays straight
Resolute defiant
Against
Her Benefactress.
He’ll not tell her
How he sandwiched
All his cash
Between the mattress.