Four Decembers Later

I no longer have reason

to visit this town.

There is no

Sitting in your kitchen

Listening to you wish you had better cabinets

And drinking hot chocolate in that ancient mug that you hated

but I wouldn’t let you throw away

because it made the cocoa taste more like marshmallow.

There is only

passing through--

quick interstate exit

(apologies to my companion who never had the honor of meeting you)

And a wrong turn--Crepe Myrtle instead of Ash Lawn--

on the way to your grave. 

I don’t know what I expected

But not tattered formerly blue silk flowers

in that cold grey urn

breaking the orderly row of stones decked with pine wreaths and red ribbons. 

You would have made sure there were poinsettias.