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This I Could Understand

On off-white walls,
the writing extends down the hallway 
to the front door.
Using his piano as a bar,
there are opened bottles of vodka and beer.
Everywhere, leaning piles of trash;
and in the corner,
a dish for a deceased cat.
The plate had been created by his mother.
Her signatory grey and blue finish
with a pattern of fish.
Yet I’d abandoned this place,
not returning for many years.
A GE kitchen magnet still sticks to the frig,
with clippings from when we were married.
And the plate his mother created,
still awaits a cat that would never return.
Especially,
if it was still alive.
And this I could understand.

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