My Wife's Ashes Are in a Box
by Ken Wheatcroft-Pardue

On the box are:
1. her wire-rimmed bifocals
2. her flip-up sunglasses
3. my wedding ring

After she died, all I had to do
was get a side-long glance
of that box

and the lights would go jagged.
Strange. But I miss bawling like that now,
and today, I'm missing her so much.

Her goofy, sweet, sidelong smile.
Her warm body curled up next to mine.
I'm beyond tired of skittish women

in their fifties, who always overshare
that once they were promiscuous,
but, just my luck, not anymore.

They're wary. Me, not so much,
I just want someone fun
who's not afraid of her own shadow.

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