The way I cling to this ranch house
with its many useless rooms,
for yet another season
though my man (and our children)
have rooted elsewhere now.
Another summer folds into another
autumn and it is October 3 again
when he was carried out past midnight.
I still sleep in that bedroom
a whole decade later
steadfast on this crag like
one of those devoted watchdogs
that curls on its master‘s grave
till some kind strangers pry
her away.
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