with him on a warm, sunny afternoon
in April. This was before Jim, his wife’s
breast cancer and my alcoholism. This was
before masks and distancing. It

was a model day back then. Boys playing
baseball in the field. A fly ball landed by
his heels. He picked it up and threw it back. I chewed
on a blade of grass. I don’t have days like that

now, not with him. Not with anyone. The
sun still shines a honey blossom. But I play dead
as a possum.  The grass is overgrown, as are
the memories. The boys in the field are now

men. And the only thing I lay on is my sofa. All I chew
is my lip. I’ll not let slip the cast on this broken scene -
was it real or a hibiscus? Whatever it is I'm its mistress.