by Susan Minot

You left, not I.
One by one there were less of you.
Less bicycles tipping off stands.
Less leftovers I'd get of stew.
Less and less shouts and then fewer hands
To pull back my ears or smooth my head,
Or strangle my throat till my tongue went dry.
Some of you changed tastes, slept with cats instead.

Each, apart, you told me you loved me: a lie.
You each went, snapping your suitcase shut.
I loped after each car. Barking at the end
Of our drive. I could only stray so far. What
I was attached to in you would not stretch or bend.
When the last who sucked his bottle lying on my fleecy side
Left, I ambled off to where dogs bereft go
Down by the railroad tracks, and died.

Return to Poetry

** Fair Use Notice**
This document may contain copyrighted material, use of which has not been specifically authorized by the copyright owners. I believe that this not-for-profit, educational use on the Web constitutes a fair use of the copyrighted material (as provided for in section 107 of the US Copyright Law). If you wish to use this copyrighted material for purposes of your own that go beyond fair use, you must obtain permission from the copyright owner.

Home Page




Your comments and inquiries are welcome

This site is hosted and maintained by:
The Mary T. and Frank L. Hoffman Family Foundation
Thank you for visiting

Since date.gif (991 bytes)