The dead thing mashed into the street

    the crows are squabbling over isn't

    her， nor are their raucous squawks

    the quiet cawing from her throat

    those final hours she couldn't speak.

    But the racket irks him.

    It seems a cruel intrusion into grief

    so mute it will never be expressed

    no matter how loud or long the wailing

    he might do. Nor could there be a word

    that won't debase it， no matter

    how kind or who it comes from.

    She knew how much he loved her.

    That must be his consolation

    when he must talk to buy necessities.

    Every place will be a place without her.

    What people will see when they see him

    pushing a shopping cart or fetching mail

    is just a neatly dressed polite old man