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. He takes
the stairs with care. The cat,
startled, leaves bloody slashes
along my arm. I scar easily.
I wrap myself in my house, like
an old, favored sweater. Well-
worn, shabby, stained.
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.
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