Happening

Though it takes a while to
decipher the new dialect 
spoken by the jabbering youth — 
who would have thought that I would become 
an out-of-touch geezer like the rest? — 
I figure out that Louise’s remains 
are in the exhibit adjacent to mine. 
I wax poetic about my beloved, 
even in death still near and dear, 
before hearing the snickering 
of passersby who sneer my way. 
I learn that in the same exhibit, 
lying right beside my wife, 
is the skeleton of the sleazebag 
she fooled around with after bingo 
at the hospice where she died.
No doubt Louise would remain a beauty 
even as an octogenarian, 
so I applaud the other guy 
for his good taste and fine discernment. 
But how dare he? And how could she? 
I rise to my feet — a difficult task 
without a working nervous system — 
and recant the words that were once my last:
“ ‘I love you’, my ass! Go to hell, putain!”
All the guests who hear my cry
scowl and shake their heads, outraged 
that a skeleton can be so bold 
as to speak without being spoken to. 
A reporter holds out her microphone
to me for further explanation, 
and a child asks for my autograph ,
to the consternation of her parents. 
I lie back down and return to sleep,
enjoying my eternal rest,
my bony arms crossed over my chest, 
having at last accepted my role 
as but a pitiable cuckold. Fin.