Urn

I bought a cane
to limp back home,
down Narrow Lane,
past Copper Dome.

Black as a brook,
dull as a tine,
eyes of a rook
stared into mine.

An urn of dust
next to a flask,
I do not lust,
and do not ask.

I deck the shelf,
wall unto wall,
a boxed-in self,
two inches tall.

by Leo Yankevich

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