Studies her hand-me-down husband,
sensing
behind smiles and assurances,
scars.
Nothing material remains,
Yet
on occasion he
calls her by another name, requests
the tuna casserole
she never made, suffuses
memories like pointillist dots
in a Seurat landscape.
She corrects him, rarely.
He’s damaged goods,
doubting and secretive.
At 6:45
he’s checking the box scores;
on CBS new Dan Rather
berates Saddam Hussein.
Quietly,
she puts Austin aside, moves
to the bedroom.
She presses her body
to the glass.
Ray Fulmer