He sits on Swedish granite
     staring at the train that slowly 
passes. He wonders if she will 
     come up and sit on the slab of 
Swedish granite, too, or if she 
     will continue the contrariness 
she practiced so well for all 
     those years they sat on wooden
chairs, leaned on a wooden 
     table in the kitchen and smelled 
her mother’s homemade bread
     back before the chemicals 
crept inside the wheat seeds
     to stay even longer than she will 
stay obstinately beneath the 
     Swedish granite headstone he 
picked out because of his 
     heritage. Maybe she’s angry 
because of the granite. Is there 
     a variety of Dutch granite? 
Would she come sit next to 
     him then and watch and listen 
to the train moving slowly 
     past the cemetery, just the 
two of them with an 
     uneasy peace, still?