His days in the saddle long ago spent
and grand children in school or on vacation
(he could never tell which)
Old Mr. H took
to gardening.

One day, he was bent over with a rake in hand
over some big bulbs
peonies or tulips, he wasn't sure
and then
he just
stopped.

The world was not as he had known it.
It is the curse of age, he supposed.
And he was lonely,
people so far away
his wife three miles over and six feet deep.
She didn't bother him much.
After the first ten years, the pain had mellowed out
and another ten,
while not forgotten,
it was dulled.
Still,
there was not a magnet on his fridge
and no new smudges on the front welcome mat
'side from ones from his own boots.
The flowers kept him company,
but they weren't much good for talking.
And all the while
the sun would whisper things
clicking like a clock
till his own last day.

Mr. H,
he lit a cigarette
picked a flower
and walked next door
where pretty Miss Diane, widowed for fifty years
sat with some sweet lemonade and a floral mumu.

Excuse me, Miss
*I think these are for you.