After her best friend’s hubby’s funeral

or divorce or some means
by which the poor lass is on her own,

My lass, without fail,
will ask me:
What are you here for?
Tell me. Why are you here?

You’re a hopeless husband.
Tell me why are you here?

I never reply.
She asks a rhetorical question
that she knows hurts deeply.

As if in comforting her desolate friend
she must also suffer loss.
Though she phrases it
as if she is getting rid.