We said goodbye to the Japanese maples,
pin oaks and pines that had grown tall.
We bought some new furniture for this villa
in Independent Living. We learned
new names that were on the doors.
In two years, three spouses have died,
although their names are still on the doors.
I can’t think of our house—the many rooms,
the parties, how the kids grew. Still,
I like it here, happy on this second floor.
My husband is company
and old friends too, yet we can’t visit them now.
It’s lonelier since the virus—
the daily wellness call right on schedule,
meals delivered if you don’t want to cook.
If we go somewhere, we’re to quarantine.
A few seem afraid to leave their apartment,
the average age is eighty, although we’re younger.
My husband and I watch TV, talk politics
and drink wine. We go up and down
the elevator to get the mail wearing masks.
This is the routine of our days
where I look out at the trees.
The wren sometimes comes to sing to me.
