He floated on the stream of consciousness,
narrating his way through choppy sentences,
dialoguing his way through longer ones,
becoming a playwright.
He was her rough draft when she married him,
her working draft during their marriage,
her final draft when they divorced—
heavily edited, for he was a man of much fewer words.
Every day is a poem,
the title comes not
until the end.
She was given the crudest of pencils,
paper that was scrap;
she grew up hardscrabbling,
but what she could write was limitless.
Her birth was a drama,
her life, a comedy,
her death, a tragedy,
but life after death–
that was her happily ever after.