You only get a minute.
The stone has not been set.
Before you hear 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 dilemma’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
but I know that someone 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.
