The day to feed the ducks
And they put on their scarves, hats, coats, as usual
He'd made up the flask
And she'd got together the bread flakes
And they'd waited in the cold
For their usual bus
To take them to the park
It was all done in silence
All but the instructions
The coughs
The checks that the routine
Was intact
But he thought she'd been a little
Skittish
If an eighty-five year old woman with a bad back could be such a thing.
They had their usual bench
And all the ducks had names
Even the other duck feeders
Had their own schedules
Agendas for the sustenance of wild fowl
They'd met as children
And grown up together
Married and shared their lives
Together
Their children together
And the vacancy of their departure
He'd always loved her everything
The way she folded a handkerchief
And the endless chatter
And the unfortunate culinary skills
And the curl of her hair, blonde to grey to white
And now this Sunday
On their usual bench
As he poured the soup
She said
"I don't love you, don't think I ever did."
And he passed her the soup
It was tomato
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