he was something special “back in the day”;
she still writes sonnets of/to him, though he’s dead
to her these three years; one has to wonder
if it’s dedication, obsession, or
perhaps merely her addiction as
poetess; in the end – does it really
matter if the poem is to or for
or about anyone in particular?

some say one way, some the other and it’s
all the same—could be any of us, could be
all of us—any of us, anyway,
who have had love and lost and most of us
have; she might ponder on it herself, but
in the end she merely shrugs her c’est la vie.

David M Pitchford