We ate fish on Fridays

On Tuesdays, I bring you fresh battered fish.

Its not Friday, I know, but you do not.

On Saturday I read you crossword clues.

You listen, I think, to my voice.

*

Our son stops by on most Sunday mornings,

And you ask him, on good days, "How is Ann?"

And four times, five times, nine times, thirteen times,

He does not explain that she's dead.

*

On Thursdays, at dusk, I take out the bins,

And you cry in the fast darkening house,

A thin keening, a lament for yourself,

Noticing you are lost, alone.

*

Some days you ask me, angry and frightened,

When I will come back, or where I have gone,

And I am standing in full light, present,

Knowing I am insufficient.

*

On Fridays I take you to the front room,

And we listen to Chuck, Bo and Elvis,

And on the best days, you catch my eye,

And I see you, for a moment,

knowing me.