the shadow box filled with cracked porcelain beauties is empty
the shattered glass door hangs on one hinge askew
the pitter pat of tiny felt covered feet pads away
I will follow down the hall
the dusty tattered cob webs flutter( as they, in panic, blur by)
the bed skirts sways
the water glass by the bed topples to the floor
the cats they hiss in the corner
even the spiders hold their breath
my days of collecting are closing
the nights of muted passion
finally will come to an end
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