for V. Peppard
I’m alone. The porch. Empty.
Except for a wooden ashtray.
Still. She’s there. My neighbor.
Cancerous. Rotting. I watch.
Her. By the chain-linked fence.
In her wheelchair. Staring at.
The street between us. Awash.
In the light of Russian winters.
Do not talk to me about the moon.
She says. Again. I have not wasted
My life. I turn the ashtray. Over-
Flowing. Not with the usual cut
Stems. But small flower heads
Of the most delicate white flesh.