Making Sense of it All

I liked this place,
large and quiet
and light,
with proper chairs
at a round table
and no music.
We could talk.
The food was
wholesome,
too much to eat
for him, and I
couldn’t drink my
second beer.
We talked of
his travelling:
spreading her ashes
where they had
been together –
so much for a
petite person –
how to dig a
hole in sand
at beaches, not
throw to the wind.
I said I loved
listening to her still
answering the phone,
her recorded message,
but he didn’t know.
I never ring home
he told me,
which made sense,
like later our hearing
nightingales sing.

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