It is so hard to leave
the old ones alone
with their painkillers, tomatoes,
blocks of cheese
in the icebox, bread frozen
for later, canned fish.

The clock that no one
can wind anymore.

It is hard to leave, to back
down the driveway, turn
and look back, the house leaning
into October. And all
down the San Joaquin valley
tonight, the harvest moon
is weak, becoming blind.

The vineyards reach
into that blindness,
go on like headstones
to the feet of the hills.

Just yards from the edge
of the road, the ghosts of
coyotes pace back and forth
along the fence,
strange friends of your
longing, sympathetic and sad.

The old dog, deaf and blind, stirs
in her blanket on the seat,
says nothing, then sleeps.
And the moon is up
but shrinking as it climbs.