I ask her, “If my plane crashes,
would you put flowers on my grave?”
She does not speak or look my way.
I ask her, “If an auto-wreck steals
my soul from this earth,
would you mourn my passing?”
She only stares down,
fingers clasped together as if in prayer,
her mouth moving words silently.
I ask her, “What would you do
if I were to die in your arms?”
She does not raise her eyes
or acknowledge my presence.
Finally I tell her, “I’m sorry
for how things have turned out.”
She crosses herself,
then turns her back on this casket
that is my last house.
I watch her slip away,
beyond the beyond I am watching from.
the lazy photographer 