for Marie

Marie lived in the big house she was born in.

She had a baby grand in the parlor

and cookies in the kitchen.

She was my mother’s friend.

She was the pianist for the Masonic hall.

She told me I had a good voice.

There was a picture on her mantle,

of a young woman standing by her parents

and a baby grand in the parlor.

I wondered if she ever had a beau;

someone who broke her heart

or was she a daddy’s girl like Emily.

Did I tell you she had cookies in the kitchen?

Emily always did, too.

Marie’s were sugar cinnamon.

I hadn’t thought of her in years,

but last night, I was researching

where whales go when they die.

How they’d drift down to the bottom of the sea,

all alone, stripped of flesh

before worms settle on their bones.

I don’t know why I thought of Marie,

how she lived in the big house she would die in

a baby grand in the parlor.

6-5-20