I stand above your grave and think
how cold your stilled heart must be:
so new is that idea.
For you were always warm…and funny.
I laugh less often, now alone.
My feet were always cold, you claimed.
I commandeered your slippers, socks,
your sure-fire heat on winter nights,
ignoring your kvetches that I asked too much of you.
I didn’t believe a word.
I assign your footwear to the night shift,
donning desolate moccasins
and employing errant argyles,
abandoned all day in your dresser.
And though I’m allergic
and somewhat afraid,
I crank up the furnace
and think about getting a dog.
Doubt punctures false hope, opening the floodgates.
I become cloud cover
on a turbulent day.
I adopt the blackest of moods,
a gnawing ache
in the pit of my stomach.
I can name the fear:
I will be alone for the rest of my life.
I cannot stand the idea.