more icing on the petunia

i hear her voice
sometimes

when she's eating breakfast
a thousand miles away
       (or more)

like thunder
on the prairie's edge

a cold poem
about flowers delivered
to the hospital room
as the body is placed
in the freezer.

sad, sad
she munches
sad sad sad

the 2% milk
with the yellow plastic cap
swirling through her
sweet pink lips

it is not so sad,
i think

before he died,
i tell her
he was loved

those petunias
they live on

chocolate cake
i tell her

that's a good breakfast.