What am I doing still being here?
I should have died years ago.
Maybe the person upstairs made
a mistake or I’m a genetic anomaly
with no safe hiding place.
A long life is not my idea of fun,
especially when you can no longer
wipe your own ass.
Since the love of my life has left,
I keep her nightgown hanging
on her closet door and I feel
a piercing chill when I step on
one of her lost black hair pins.
I continue to place flowers
on our kitchen table as she did.
She watches over me inhabiting the flowers.
I spread my arms like a scarecrow to practice being dead.