I parked by the grave in September, under oaks and birches,
and said hello again, and went walking with Gussie

past markers, roses, and the grave with plastic chickens.
(Somebody loved somebody who loved chickens.)

Gus stopped and stared: a woman’s long bare legs
stretched up at the edge of the graveyard, a man’s body

heaving between them. Gus considered checking them out,
so I clicked my fingers, as softly as I could, to distract him,

and became the unintended source of coitus interruptus.
Walking to the car, I peeked. She was re-starting him, her

head riding up and down. It was a fine day, leaves red,
Gus healthy and gay, refusing to give up his tennis ball.