The respectable life of a widow,
was a role I was ready to play.
As the cancer destroyed your body,
I’d dream of that glorious day.
I had planned to the nines, your funeral
and picked out the perfect black dress,
practiced my tears in the mirror and
rehearsed my grief to my best.
“Your so brave” they would all be consoling,
“You are handling this all so well.”
“I’ll miss him, my husband of fifty years,”
I’d be lying, but no one could tell.
Then that donor came through with that liver,
and you got better as a matter of course.
But I can’t take another moment with you
so sign these, I want a divorce!
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