I could just make her out
down by the shed,
her stained housecoat a faded pink,
a slight shimmer to the edges.

God knows why she stood there,
she must have known he wasn’t here.
Perhaps the ethereal sat nav
sent her down my garden path.

She’d shake her head, make me
feel guilty about the begonias.
And every bloody time I’d iron a shirt
there was a whisper, a breath, behind my left ear.

Always iron the collar first,
then the shoulders.
That’s right, now the sleeves.
Make sure the cuffs are neat and smart.
Leave the front and back to last.

I wanted to tell her, “Vi – he’s not here,
these aren’t his shirts.” Another woman
does his shirts now, presumably.
The night she stopped coming
I never felt lonelier.