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Where were you today, mother?
I went through all your things,
I sold your books for a dollar,
your pots and pans, fifty cents apiece.
That black sequined gown I always liked,
three dollars was all I could get.
The bedspread, worn thin by your night-sweats,
I sold to your Persian neighbors.
They bargained hard.
I let it go for a psalm.

I didn't write you a card this year.
I sold all your stationery.
All the televisions, gone. Telephones —
I'm keeping one of them. I need it,
but I won't be calling.

There's fifteen hundred odd in my pocket.
You took us to dinner last night.
You'd have enjoyed the concert.
You paid for that, too.

      — Misha Weidman