MRS.

Late in the day a phone call comes
addressing you as Mrs.,
though you have been alone for years.
You put on a voice,
like a dress hat slipped from a hook,
as absurd as fur in summer,
a lingering twitter of gaiety
in some high place,
where you are not down
to the last tablespoon of coffee,
there is no broken bra strap,
or rip in your slip.