The homeowner grew pothos sprigs,
brilliant green, shiny leaves
on her kitchen windowsill in glass bottles.
I heard her speak to them
between blasts of my vacuum.
Dennis, she said, you’re looking well.
I made pot pie. I’ve missed you.
One day on the chaise lounge, I found an envelope
addressed DENNIS HASSELDORF
who must be her husband
I never saw in person,
only in framed photographs
covered by black lace—
she spoke about death beautifully—