There are stories you know without knowing quite
how it is you know them, stories without
any point to speak of, except the point
of their own peculiar strangeness, stories
as empty of purpose as any abandoned
barn in these barren fields, enduring
against all likelihood or good reason.
One such story took place around here
a lifetime ago. An old couple died—
whether, as may be, by Providence
or simply by luck—they died, either way,
on the very same day. He died before lunch.
The daughters decided to tell her nothing.
She appeared to take no notice of sharing
her bed with a corpse, except to complain
of his icy feet. She was dead before dark.
And that’s all there is to that story.
No one recalls anymore who they were.