Renee Gresham, Widow of William Lindsay Gresham, 1909–1962

Or the charm that suddenly seduces out of nowhere, long rehearsed

till you’ve realized too late

that half your living life went walking straightway out the door

into the noonday glare of some Sunday godforsaken place­ — 

somewhere down in central Florida,

the so-called Widow State you thought was safe­ — 

which at the time still remained obscure,

so obscure, in fact,

it was almost dark when you awoke, and so unlike yourself

as in a manic haze rifling through those drawers

for letters, tchotchkes, so much else. So you’d suddenly been had.

There are times when the human frailties let down their guard.

There is a ring of fire Dante so numbered, named

for those who prey upon the old.

The kids all grown up and living somewhere else,

and you’re left alone stumbling down the hall.

It could’ve been a friendly call

at first. A friendly knock. A slight accent adding to the charm.

A friend of a friend of a so-called friend no time to trace.

That noonday glare of sunlight as a halo for that added touch.

Have you forgotten anything? Anything?