The Widower

Wasn’t much narrative left
He could hold in the corners
Of his small life for himself.

He smiled in the shady room,
Blinds drawn against burning sun,
Recalling how she’d put it.

It was her world, he just lived
In it. It would still be hers
Long after he had left it.

He frowned, as he tried to stomp
A desultory cockroach
That picked up speed. So he missed

Her. So what. This was his world.
She just haunted him in it.