Eight Weeks

The mullets are jumping in the bay,
up in the air,

on an invisible trampoline.
He smokes inhaling the cigarette,
like a lifeline,
as if it's her
still here beside him.
The ringlets of smoke,
find their way into the clouds.
The reel squeals but
he holds back.
Sunny skies,
but we are gray.
We dance around the conversation,
her absence felt.
Weeks ago she collapsed
like a wounded bird in his arms.
The lobster claws remained untouched
in the ice box.
The football games became
a background noise of a devastating Sunday.
The mullets were in the bait motel,
and he released them,
for her,
for her spirit,
a gesture of love.

Her spirit remains,
in this home at the edge of the ocean,
where ashes are in a green pouch
waiting to be scattered into a Turquoise ocean.
Framed photographs,
snapshots of happier days,
a life well lived.
Silent thoughts,
a longing heart.


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