Outside

　　by Michael Ryan

　　 The dead thing mashed into the street

　　 the crows are squabbling over isn't

　　 her， nor are their raucous squawks

　　 the quiet cawing from her throat

　　 those final hours she couldn't speak.

　　 But the racket irks him.

　　 It seems a cruel intrusion into grief

　　 so mute it will never be expressed

　　 no matter how loud or long the wailing

　　 he might do. Nor could there be a word

　　 that won't debase it， no matter

　　 how kind or who it comes from.

　　 She knew how much he loved her.

　　 That must be his consolation

　　 when he must talk to buy necessities.

　　 Every place will be a place without her.

　　 What people will see when they see him

　　 pushing a shopping cart or fetching mail

　　 is just a neatly dressed polite old man