They are under the hedge, the elderly,
the silver whiskered. Threadbare possums,
frail chipmunks. The feeble,
squeezed into narrow parts of the day.
Her apartment is hedged in.
Her telephone is black, silent and Bakelite.
A groundhog comes out to gaze at the sunset,
some myopic sniffing, then shuffles back
with that stout rolling gait of his.
She forages in her living space.
From a...
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