Ménage à Trois
If I loved you
fifty years ago at the altar
I mean it no less today
as I wet your lips with moist swabs
and read the paper waiting for you
to make the obituary.
When I came last night,
you looked the same. Eight years
and illness haven't masked familiarity.
I stayed by your bedside
until Martha came this morning.
She brought the blanket we used
that snowy night eight years past
wives, neighbors, lovers.
You moved on after that,
new house, new car, new kids,
but I kept your glasses on the nightstand.
Before Martha leaves, I ask her
to hold your hand and she stays a moment
by your yellow body
before meeting the lawyer
to discuss discarding things.
You wanted them thrown away,
but I tell her I'll take all of it
even the second ring.
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