By your roadside,
your very own, the one
outside your house.

You are waiting
to be let
back inside. 

Here they come,
leaving your doors open
as if no one lives there.

Someone’s
bagged and tagged
on a gurney. Not you,

though. They know
it isn’t you. They 
are giving you time,

all the time you need,
before they open their mouths
and remove all doubt.

By the roadside, formerly
your own roadside, the one
outside the house

you’ll be selling soon,
the roadside you will soon
drive one more time.

Right now you’re cold.
You wish for a jacket
and like a machine

you will go back inside 
and get yours from the closet
that soon won’t be your own.

Your own house
fading from view
until you cannot see it

as you drive away
in the fresh
dark cold.