The Woman Who Camped Alone

The drooping
Stars and Stripes,
newspaper-sized,
yellowed by time,
sticks in the Maple,
a reminder
like a note on a fridge.
Perhaps, she recalls
when they sat by the fire,
eyes in magazines,
compatible and content.
Does she pine each time
she pours the coffee
or stirs the stew,
smells
that hint
of Sage?
"Everything
in our life
was spiced
just right."
At night
she lies
tent-less,
head propped up
in the back
of a Subaru,
her face painted
Billy Holiday blue
by the light of a lap-top
she pounds upon,
hopeful,
excited, even,
like an astronaut
ready for take-off
or a Heaven-lusting poet
writing sonnets
to the other side.