My daughter casually says
that a hoarder lived in the long-vacant house
that now has a Dumpster out front
and a crew throwing rugs and dresser drawers
from the top floor to the street.
I have heard, too, that there are dolls
in boxes in the house, and they can be seen
if you’re willing to climb over a low wall,
make nice with the crew, find out
that one is named Simon, and ask.
But one neighbor already did that,
and I’m not as nervy as she is,
so I tell myself that it isn’t nice to gawk
at sorrow and death, the refuse of
squirrels, even the dolls peeping out
of boxes, and so my daughter and I
walk past, and it will be another day
that she learns what it looks like,
a sadness you can’t keep
in the palm of one hand.