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
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.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s