Outside the funeral of the politician who died young
I waited for you. Rolled in my hand like a baton

were tissues from the mourners inside
that I was meant to throw away,

a few with your scribbled notes to me.
How they’d found me in that crowd I couldn’t say,

or if the bottle blonde was your wife
or whether I had a husband.

We sat near enough to barter
knives and forks—the scraps of dinner theater.

The blonde was climbing into your lap,
playing with the buttons on your jacket.

Then everyone moved around the hall, more like a whirlpool
than musical chairs. You on the far side of the banquet.