by Larry D. Thomas
She lives alone in an old stone
house on the outskirts of Alpine.
Though her petite frame’s acquiesced
a tad to the nagging lists
of arthritis, her mind’s quite keen,
active as an uncaged cactus wren.
To honor her dead husband,
she’s declined at least a dozen
blue-rivered hands offered her
in marriage. A list of widowers
lies folded in her bedside table
drawer, each willing and able
to lead her in a wicked Texas
Two-Step culminating in safe affection,
sans the baggage of attachment,
just enough to keep her cheeks sanguine
and her arteries free of fat.
Too old to fret, she likes it like that.