You only get a minute.

The stone has not been set

before you get the question

“Are you seeing someone yet?”

You have not filed the insurance,

transferred a single bond

before they sing the litany

“Remember, life goes on.”

It’s not the lonely evenings

that strike terror in your breast.

It’s the envelopes that come addressed

to “Ms. You and your guest.”

The delemmas’s not in grieving

or even what to wear

but where you find a body

to escort you to affairs.

They say you’re far too fussy.

There is  nothing much out there.

They use as their criteria

if a man can breathe and stare.

I’d run away to Tonga,

Abu Dhabi or Tibet,

but I know that some one there would ask

“Are you seeing someone yet?”

If you find yourself a widow,

start wailing right away.

You only get a minute

before you have to play.