Green Hills Literary Lantern

 

 

Elegy

 

 

From merely personal observation, I assure you:

Husbands are dying, the way men do.

Tumbling off ladders or clutching their chests,

they’re croaking, and maybe it’s all for the best.

For the widows have gone all perky and cute.

No sooner they’ve thrift-stored those blue serge suits

than they’re out to the shops and buying new clothes

for themselves.  Plus matching handbags and shoes.

They gather at lunch to compare bargains

while straw-sipping cocktails based on pink gin.

Then they air-kiss goodbyes and slide into new cars

and generally make up a picture by far

prettier than the frowse who clutched the hand

of the fiftieth anniversary husband. 

 

 

 

 

Jean Esteve is the author of several poetry chapbooks and of the collection The Winter Sun.  She lives on the Oregon coast.