Classic Poem

She lost her sons in the war
and her husband died of grief,
but she goes on
building fires in fireplaces,
airing out rooms,
tidying tables,
smiling straight smiles
for boarders in Bloomsbury.
She once said—
watching me writing something—
you seem happy, sir?—
and I paused and said—
looking at what she had done,
seeing her even in crevices—
yes—
and she smiled another straight smile.
And she said,
it must be grand writing things?—
and said still more with her eyes—
and I said—
looking at what I was doing,
running my eye down the column,
running it up again,
finding too little of her
and much too much of me—
no.
She seemed puzzled,
paused,
ventured—
but it's fun, isn't it?—
it looks like fun?—
and I said—
telling a lie somehow,
telling a bit of a lie—
this once, perhaps,
yes, this once.
You'll excuse me disturbing you, sir,
she said with a crooked smile—
and closed the door so quietly
I thought she was still in the room.