The Widow Poem by R. G. Bell

There, over in the check-out line, see her?
The one with the blue hair, sapphire earrings
And matching necklace masking a fleshy neck.
(Try not to look like you're looking, but look.)
Her feet, swollen, crammed into toeless heels,
She stands among a jeans and T-shirt crowd
In a Paris print that set her husband back
Three-hundred 1957 dollars
And signs the world's most carefully written check.

The bagboy slams the trunk of their rusting
Silver Cadillac, receives his dime
And watches the grand lady fire up the monster
Grab its wheel and stick her nose toward the windshield
Preparing to pilot leviathan through the lot.
It churns and belches and in a hard left turn
The steering column screams, but somehow
It retains some dignity while lunging forward,
Brake lights flashing spasmodically,
High fins swishing a smoky wake.

It will see her safely, slowly home again.
Her husband, rest his soul, before he died
Taught her how to drive the beast,
But failed to mention ever replacing it.