An Anniversary

Contentious day,
ripe with words,
engorged with said and
succulent with memories
a chair, a lap,
your workshop in the basement.
I would put on your clothes
from the war,
far too big
for either one of us
to acknowledge.
Steal your t-shirts,
white and worn,
they were soft
and sometimes smelled
of Old Spice.

A dementia of distance
pulled you away, all
we talked about
was the weather.

It’s raining today.

Is it sunny there,
does the columbarium marble
warm to the touch?
I’ll visit.

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