before he leaves
the house
he finds his hat, his boots.
his gloves.
his cane behind the door.
an umbrella.
he wraps a scarf around his neck,
takes his
keys from
the counter, then looks out
the window, down
the short driveway.
where are you going dear, his wife
asks,
sipping her tea,
a book in her lap.
a green ball of yarn on the floor.
to the mailbox, he says.
i'll be back shortly.
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