ON A WEDNESDAY
On a Wednesday…
gnarled cold ball –
of a once vibrant woman.
Contorted as the butt
of a barely lit cigarette,
Her remnant smolder,
uncurls its custody in spiraled smoke,
leaning inward, twirling
into dingy ceiling overlay gray
My, my my.
How swiftly she left,
with not finality,
or sacred pause -
that contingent prerequisite,
beckoning us goodbye.
how the lengthy days gradually turn,
as weighty stale pages of parchment;
yellowing in her absence,
One more to file in six feet unearthed,
before putting away the shovels…
dipped in bitter tear-stained quills,
but destined to reunite,
perhaps waiting impatiently for the last chapter,
all-story’s end,on a Wednesday.