She talks to her love every day, she said.
From her craft room she hears him move about
the bedroom. I think there are only four rooms.
nightly here, they talk.
Married for more than thirty-seven years
they sit without any words spoken,
know what each is about to do next.
She prepares his meals, puts away his clothes.
He still accompanies her after his stroke
rides shotgun and warns about changing lights,
waits in the car till the market is done.
Then home to stock shelves and rock away time.
She kept the calendar the day he died
his hat hangs on a clothes rack near the door
she hung more pictures of him when he left
she won’t move. Here she can still talk to him.
