She desires to be a widow

so bad that she can taste it

The casseroles and condolences

With open arms embraced it

She wears no widow’s weed

Nor tithed the widow’s Mite

With crocodile tears in her eyes

Their mourning her spotlight

When the flowers have all wilted

And the calls have all but eased

Will she then be grateful

That it was he deceased?

Note: This isn’t written about anyone in particular. It’s a what if.