The Widower

Crows are in late autumn trees

and you are gone, Empress.

I am broken in the places

you have touched me.

The chain around my neck

is your heavy hands and they are cold now,

smoke leaves my mouth.

My heart beat is a red apple.

I perch on stiff chairs a marionette, unused,

with tattered ropes; freed from your loud party.

I am a smoky jazz trio sadly playing.

I am dark in drunken saloons

with no money for more wine.