behind my chair
on the porch.
I do not mourn its passing.
It is one of those large ones
that reside in the South
among dead leaves
under the bark of trees,
on your porch.
They do not respect privacy or
care for cleanliness.
If they can cohabitate and
live with you for free,
they will.
They owned this land
before we came
and they won’t give up
without a fight.
I sweep its husk into the yard,
hope a hill of ants, a bird
or maybe its friends and family
will feast on what remains.
Nothing or no one
mourns its passing.
7-12-25
My husband's poetry 
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