11-23-2016, 02:19 AM
Edit 1.
They are under the hedge: the silver
whiskered, threadbare possums,
frail chipmunks -
the feeble squeezed
into narrow parts of the day.
A stout groundhog comes out to gaze at the sunset,
some myopic sniffing, then shuffles back
with that rolling arthritic gait of his.
She forages in her apartment.
From a window she blinks at the moon,
only yesterday it slipped from her purse.
A widow mislays her eyeglasses in a lost year
as she ferrets yet deeper
into thickets of uncertainty.
The young used to visit.
Pups suckled fat pink nipples.
They used to proudly park new automobiles
under watchful windows.
We are settled, tucked into socks and housecoats.
Frail hands open kitchen cupboards,
seek foods
unprepared for the present.
Pills pend under bedroom lamps.
Paws scratch dependent itches.
Some of us are under the hedgerow,
some silent under the roofs of our mouths.
We unsnarl tangled quilts,
or snuffle at a nub-end of twilight.
We will all go quietly
no fuss, just us.
They are under the hedge: the silver
whiskered, threadbare possums,
frail chipmunks -
the feeble squeezed
into narrow parts of the day.
A stout groundhog comes out to gaze at the sunset,
some myopic sniffing, then shuffles back
with that rolling arthritic gait of his.
She forages in her apartment.
From a window she blinks at the moon,
only yesterday it slipped from her purse.
A widow mislays her eyeglasses in a lost year
as she ferrets yet deeper
into thickets of uncertainty.
The young used to visit.
Pups suckled fat pink nipples.
They used to proudly park new automobiles
under watchful windows.
We are settled, tucked into socks and housecoats.
Frail hands open kitchen cupboards,
seek foods
unprepared for the present.
Pills pend under bedroom lamps.
Paws scratch dependent itches.
Some of us are under the hedgerow,
some silent under the roofs of our mouths.
We unsnarl tangled quilts,
or snuffle at a nub-end of twilight.
We will all go quietly
no fuss, just us.