How I Spend My Time Since You Died

Mondays, I start a letter.  I read through
my notes on everything that happened last week.
I skip the sports news, which didn't interest
you except for Manchester United.

Tuesdays, I brood about
the existence of God and the soul.
If I didn't limit this to one day,
it could take over the entire week.

Wednesdays, I do the week's shopping,
buying foods I couldn't get you to eat.
Afternoons, I watch movies you'd have hated.
Evenings, I work on the letter.

Thursdays, I visualize heaven.
It's partly the gold mosaics of Saint Mark's Cathedral,
combined with an English village
and a dash of Mardi Gras.

Fridays, I deal with my rage.

Saturdays, I go out to dinner,
learning to be unafraid
of a table for one.
I'm not a recluse, after all.

Sundays, I deliver my letter.  I place it
among the twisted roots of an oak tree.
An armadillo there, a friend of mine,
will bring it through the roots to you.

Gail White is the author of The Accidental Cynic (a winner of the Anita Dorn Memorial Award for Poetry), and Easy Marks (a nominee for the Poets Prize). She has recent work in First Things, Able Muse, and Evansville Review. She lives in Breaux Bridge, Louisiana with her husband and cats.