The dead thing mashed¹ into the street

    the crows are squabbling over isn't

    her， nor are their raucous² 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 wailing³

    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 consolation⁴

    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