*
In the late evening, when I go to close
the shutters, I see the cold moon
in the eastern sky. Snow, still,
in shadowed places.
My dog is going deaf. The cat,
startled, leaves bloody slashes
along my arm. They will scar.
I scar easily.
I wrap myself in my house, like
an old, favored sweater. Well-
worn, shabby, stained, but
comfortable. Familiar.
Shall I think the best of you and so
be taken for a fool? Or the worst,
and so be safely cynical,
sophisticated, shuttered-in.
*
--
sharon brogan
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