A horn sobs
In the night. Closer-
In a dog barks. The
Horn’s diminishing
Hides its voice in a
Series of cars successively
Passing. One winds up,
Someone young and glad.
And from a bike snarls
Growls upon Expressway to
The North. I’ve shriven
My shaggy head with it all
Too many times – Waking
As I still do to see Susan
Sitting in a chair nearby,
Reading Agatha Christie whose
Hercule Poirot would see me
As having dwindled these past
Few years, never completely
Distinguishing myself from she
Who passed beyond my keeping.
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