Nod to the skeletons in the shrubbery
(only buried guinea pigs holding long gone paws).
This relocation coincides, more or less,
with a blessing,
and I neither believe nor know any better
that the heaped Everests of sorrow
must be disassembled and then
enshrined elswhere, anew,
nor that there is no escape
from the hound shadow of habit
(of the worst sort),
salivating at the lack of change.
Even this late a white house
gleams in the gloaming,
not far ahead.