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
