Widower
By David Ray
She took such good care of him
that he seldom lifted a finger.
So only now does he stand
by the sink and peel
his first potato, with the paring knife
she left as legacy. The potato,
he notes, fits the human hand,
was made to do so, one
of the miracles. She knew all along.
Copyright Credit: Poem copyright ©2006 by David Ray, “Widower,” from Music of Time: Selected and New Poems, (The Backwaters Press, 2006). Poem reprinted by permission of David Ray and the publisher.