Someone hurt her, I think. It doesn't show,
But it shows, especially when it rains,
And sitting by the light of the window
She feels the drops run down her windowpane.
That was her second marriage she told me
Though I didn't ask. That was all she said.
And she smiles as though she means it, mostly,
I smile back, with no words spoken. Instead
I could be an old sweater, to her,
Anyone warm and obliging would do.
Flattered, I suppose, it's me she'd prefer
Never certain if it really is true.
What a pathetic, meager need is this
That for its own sake its reasons persist.
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