March 12, 2024

strange how things goes on
for Susan and Adam

though there’s a moment, daily, when a view out a window stops me
with your absence, when I could swear you’ve moved the car keys or found
that receipt I was looking for and laid it, like a wink, at the top of the pile.
Certain evenings, the sound of police sirens doubles as your voice, rising
above the lights, and the living room discos with the reds and blues 
of every moment I wish I could have back. It’s strange how things go on, 
but in the country where you and I are both still alive, I’m taking you 
shopping, and we’re walking down the aisles like this is just how it is, 
me steering the cart and you tossing in a box of cereal, a jar of apricot jam,
that canned soup you like, and we squeeze through the checkout lane, laughing.