No Room

There never was room for her anywhere,
Whatever we planned to do,
If we rode on the river or into the hills,
The seats were one too few.
Of course, when there was work to be done,
We called her a dear, and she did it.
Achievement over, we took the praise;
None thought of her amid it.

Grown older—and ill, she had small care of us,
Less of the hospital.
'It's really too bad,' we said, and forgot;
And death came, and the pall.
To the funeral draped in wreaths of rain
We meant to go, no doubt.
Before there was room for her in the grave,
It had to be baled out.

And after?…Well…What would you have?
Living thoughts and days
Never have room for a dead woman,
Useless to their ways.
Perhaps there's a fibre in some one of us
Holding still a regret
That bears her name. Lelia, was it?...
Lena? Louise? Lisette?