Blankets hide the holes punched through hollow doors
and she covers the shelves with plastic dragonflies
or ceramic angels bought cheap at dollar stores.
Everyday some lone unguarded trinket dies,
the victim of a clumsy hand or wagging tail.
The epileptic dog will be blamed for all.
Stacked on the hearth lies a month of unopened mail
waiting to be burned, while she waits for a phone call
from her doctor or one of two ungrateful sons.
No matter, her cell phone’s been dead for days.
Her freezer’s full of fifties while her purse is full of ones.
The fridge shelters only year-old mayonnaise
and a flat two-liter of Diet Coke.
Her cigarettes are bought, tax-free, from the tribe
and their smell is masked by layers of incense smoke.
She sorts all the pills she’s been prescribed
into used Ziploc bags and breath-mint tins.
When her youngest, visiting home, asks why
the Pomeranian is so calm, she grins;
she drugs the dogs on the fourth of July.
They stand together, admiring the lawn;
the weakling willow has now grown so high,
but the half-destroyed ornamental fawn
has exposed its re-bar skeleton at the thigh
and lost an ear in combat with a weed-whacker.
Alive or not, she treasures every pet,
so she worries that the black lab’s poop seems blacker
than usual; she’d better take her to the vet.
All under her roof are lavished with care;
the broken china bowl is half repaired
and each day she combs more fur than hair;
at home, even the Valium is shared.