it was a Sunday afternoon
when I walked across the park
there were already a dozen people
gathered at the house across

                                                         ­                         throughout the years, this park has seen my many roles

a lover, at age 16
                 gently caressing the hair of the boy I adored
a wife, at age 26
                 exchanging vows with the man I loved
a mother, at age 36
                 kissing the spot where my son had scratched himself

                                                        ­                                                                 ­           it was a Sunday afternoon
                                                       ­                                                   when Death took away the love of my life
                                                            ­                                           with his fleeting cloak and gleaming scythe

he was the love of my life
   when he was putting on my wedding ring
        or when he was cradling Jim
            and even when he walked out on our suburban dream

he had always been the love of my life
   and here I was
at age 46
in the park
the first time of my life when our roles had differed
     I, the widow
     and he, the dead man

                                                            ­                                                                 ­       it was a Sunday afternoon
                                                       ­                                      and it was one of the quietest Sundays I ever had.

my thoughts are lace
delicately i weave them
with a warm embrace
they greet me everyday
sometimes i would prefer not to
but they never listen anyway
they're always there
often a little too much
like lettuce in my chicken sandwich
or a buffet right after brunch
and sometimes they scare me
like the monsters under my bed
no matter how much i tell them
they won't leave my head.