Running behind on typing these rough drafts up. This is about someone I served in a bank once.
A husband, wife, he’s not decided, still
he likes ‘widow’ all that word instills.
Adjusts wig and dress and tights he purses
lips, glances into mirror, rehearses
arguments and tears; finds the worst memory
(a dead dog) and applies blusher tenderly.
This will be his finest moment,
a performance to savour.