They were leaving. Everything was packed. The truck
loaded and the load trucked off. The husband,
one last time, swept clean the sidewalk where each night
with his unmarried neighbor he spoke in low whispers.
The neighbor saw him sweeping, slipped
behind the house, and there—
beside the border bed—
the wife uprooting Hens and Chicks. “I
simply couldn’t leave them here.” And since she never
raised her head, he sought her hands and saw
before them—
like a dozen eyes torn from their sockets—
several shallow gaps in dirt.
