Withered Gray Thing
Going back home is a sad thing
Everyone is aging ungracefully
the family dog is long dead
they saved her purple collar
the one with the tiny bell
that's still ringing in everyone's head.
Weeds and devil's claw creeping
silently around the periphery
of a worn-out property
old bitters bursting out
so easily-so violently.
It used to be refreshing to visit
now I can't wait to leave.
Going back home
used to be a spray of
minty green.
Now it's a withered-up
gray thing waiting for the end.
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