piles of leftover,
slopped puddles of self pity,
an opened packet of variegated strife seeds--
few left that hadn't been sown.
Her grown children gather in her home
to sweep and dust her memories,
and pack her volumes,
all the while searching for some
half-remembered jewels.
When I leave you, my own dear offspring,
hear the bell of rope
against the harbor masts and miss me.
Bake chocolate chips together,
thinking of hospitality and
laugh at my greatest guilty pleasure.
Wash up with those infernal hand-made
dishcloths that I gave out every year.
Whatever I have I give you now.
Whatever you must throw away, throw away now
with all your hearts.
Only then, can we finish this poem.
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