shot glass
"... brevity is the soul of wit ..."
- William Shakespeare

Kaye Bartholomew

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We stood in a row

beside the fence, staring
at a bulldozer finishing the job.
Only the chimney stood, bricks tangled with ivy.
Names and heights in pencil on the kitchen wall –
gone, along with steamed windows,
stew bubbling in a pot.
Root cellar emptied of turnips,
spuds and onions from the garden.
Fallow furrows ran to the road with
lilacs and hollyhocks on guard at the gate.
Dad took her hand, head against his shoulder;
we followed. No one spoke
as we filed to the car then
down the dirt drive to the highway
and our new house in town.