Judy and I

When Judy speaks soft like the wind of

a warm July day I sit quietly in my second

hand 1965 orange and yellow recliner

watching her plump rose frosted lips dance.

When Judy walks down the sidewalk in

her bright red leather stilettos I rush quickly
behind tripping over the ratty, frayed bottoms of

my old torn gray skinny jeans following her shape.

When Judy grew older and her hair grayed with

the wisdom and memories of sixty years I began

to fall in love with the woman she had become and

the cups of coffee we have shared at local cafés.

When Judy died the leaves had just started to turn

into the oranges, reds, and browns of autumn and

the wind had just become brisk as dusk falls on the

city and I stood upon your grave and could not cry.