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Double Monument
She just wishes she could
smoke another cigarette with him.
I can't abide the odor in my car,
though I'm trying to quit
giving her grief about smoking.
But, damn it, I don't want her
joining him under the hokey rose
and "together forever"
any sooner than she has to.
Still, when we arrive I say, why
don't you have a cigarette with him?
It's sunny, mercifully temperate for July.
She settles in the shade, pats the almost
grassed-over mound beside her, lights up,
inhaling deeply, as though taking the first
breath in months, and lets go slowly.
The next part is too perfect,
so don't believe it if you don't want to.
A dove swoops into the elm above her,
stands there on his short legs, calling
and calling in such cool, aching tones,
we feel the throbbing deep in our own throats.
Then the gray wife comes to perch beside him.
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