The Widow

She closes the door and drops her purse on the table.
She removes the veil.
She looks one more time at the photo on the wall by the lamp
Of the one she had just returned from burying
And visibly wilts.

Forty-three years....
How does one move on?
When will she stop straining to here the squeaking third step as she prepares lunch,
And the scraping back of the chair at the head of the table,
And the same old rumbling clearing of a throat?