88A

by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

There was always one light on

each night

as I stumbled home

from the bar.

The rest of the lights on the street

were out

but the senile widow at 88A

always left her light on,

convinced that her husband who had been dead

five years

was cheating on her.

She was up at dawn each following morning

accosting passers by

and asking them

if they had seen her husband

who hadn't come home

last night.

One day

a white unmarked van came

and took her away

and a young family of first time homeowners

moved in.

Last night

the entire street was dark

when I stumbled home

from the bar.

It's been that way

for weeks now.