Her Own Way.
How was Florence?
But she never answered.
She’d been there with him
the guy with the dark eyes
and wallet the size she liked.
Did you see the art and the sites?
She stood and unpacked her bags,
emptied the dirty linen in the bins
in the washroom. Thank you for
the postcard; I liked the artwork.
She looked tired, her skin was pale.
Jetlagged, you surmised. Are you
coming out for a meal? For a drink?
She sat in the armchair, closed her
eyes. You sat opposite and stared.
There where you thought she sat,
emptiness gazed back. Her ghost
frequently visited at that time of day;
even in death she had her own way.
Comments about this poem (Her Own Way. by Terry Collett )
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