Sunday morning stood by the steps down to the living room,
not a sound knew that she was down there
but no one alive could be that quiet.
Dimly remembered an argument
must have pushed her away from me
when she tried to scratch my face
and she had hit her head on the coffee table.
Have to call the police
tell them what happened
and hope that they would believe my story.
A sudden rush of air behind me,
hissing sounds of passionate hate,
but before I could turn around
she pushed me down the steps.
Tuesday, the chapel is full of flowers
she is a widow now
red rimmed eyes
and scented silk handkerchief.
Is there really no one I can tell?