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Poetic Justice

The burglars kicked in the sidedoor
and invaded our kitchen
stealing 22 years of safety
and a cheap TV.

We painted that kitchen
in a project which
began with stripping ugly wallpaper and ended
with a pretty security door a week too late.

Thieves ransacked the dresser
she bought from her landlady in Virginia,
the top strewn with a lifetime’s sentimental baubles
pawed through by worthless thugs.

In the garage,
a thief spread the contents of the glovebox
over the seats,
as if taking inventory before a long trip.

Back at their hideout,
the burglars exclaimed,
“Man, those people had nothin’ worth stealing.
We were robbed.”



The day finally comes
when you have to lift your dog
down from the truck.
It doesn’t matter that for years
he has cleared that distance
in a bound.
Or that he hates for you
to pick him up.
He stands at the tailgate
eying the distance;
does he think his leg
may give in again?
He waits a long time
as if just surveying the scene —
not asking for help,
just enduring it.
With a dignity
That makes you cry. mjh


(Written 3 years before Lucky Dog died.)

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