every widower becomes a poet

the funeral director on call
had remained in the mortuary downstairs
so we could give him
time he wanted with her

as the old man had refused to leave the chapel

next morning before dawn

i found him there
head resting on the side of
his deceased wife’s antique rose casket

“mother” stitched into fabric of the lining
ten children between them

hand atop her rosary wrapped fingers

he had passed in the night
sitting beside her

the last words he said to me was
i miss her so much i could die

every
widower
becomes a poet