I don’t know where to go to
find the chosen grave, all the old
haunts now prowled out,
the hollow below the blackberries,
the chair in the garage
empty, foxtails and shed hair.
There moving slowly in the sun,
then long gone, no wish
no work to bring you back or
bless your stilled flesh and
freed bones back to this
brief turn, pets and purrs and
tear stained truths, my love
nothing but words and weeping
now that the bill comes due.
A small wonder left to weeds and
the countdown clock the heart
becomes as we age out,
ugly, weary, lost, alone.
