My husband and I are wheeling out
the garbage and recycling bins
to the curbside. Stink of old flesh,
clink and rattle of tin, last week’s news.
We pause to look at the moon.
Her round cheeks. A star or two
bright and glittering on the dark periphery.
We’ve been doing this walk together
for years. And years to come quite likely.
Then we’ll stop. One before the other.
The house will pass on, fall
to its knees, or be torn down. We have
no children. Only pets, a little
graveyard of crosses. Did we ever exist?
Who can say? The moon looks on
with her kind face.