the widows' boudoir

luc simonic
rain or shine
my god,
she sallied forth alone
four miles every day
before lunch for
most of your short life
telling silent stories

to herself

she listens like
an ant.
a worker ant.
a buzzing bee.
and
your long distance
dipstick
says you need to
add a quart.
add some oil.
make her
more
lubricated.

she needs lubrication.

she will dry up.

she is a machine.

she is mixed up
of metal shavings
and rusted corners
and squeaks that
no one has heard
for 15 years.
she is music to her
ears until the sound she
makes two days from
now upon your desk.
upon your bed.

she is not so dry.
you are sole audience
to her 100 year flood.