gkpoetry

(For Joe’s Wife, Ginger)

My Joe has died; no longer wife but widow
To bear being bereft, yet poorly prepared
For this posture. Other past wives say, “ditto,”

When our weekly group meets, sobbing in pillows,
Searching for salve to soothe the wounds we bear.
Our husbands have died, no longer wives but widows.

“Book clubs, tennis days still occur you kiddos,”
Says our leader to avoid us being ensnared
In a crippled posture; agreement, we all say, “ditto.”

At home, I stand by his favorite chair, shadowed
By drapes, where we’d discuss worries and cares.
My hero has died; no longer wife but widow

Who now decides, without enough info,
Things he’d settle without rising from his chair.
This posture not suited for romping and frisking in meadows

Which we did for years with our shirts in billows
Guiding, leading us around nary a care.
Our light-hearted postures I wish I could ditto,
But Joe has died; forever, I’m a widow.