Bruised Gold

I know what the neighbors will say,
how you let your house fall apart,
rainwater pouring over broken gutters,
chimney cracked and leaning
toward our house
like some Oakland Tower of Pisa,
the grandson who dealt dope
out of his bedroom window
while you languished in bed,
the screaming junkie girl
on the sidewalk
demanding her money back,
the argument and gun shot
in the middle of the night,
our smashed-up Corolla,
and oy, our aching property values—

but I prefer to remember
the time you called
and told me how much it meant
for a bedridden old lady
to hear us teaching our toddler son
the names of plants and bugs
in the backyard,
our houses so close together
there was no way to hide
the smallest moments of our lives,
the hamster we laid to rest one evening
under a rock with his name on it,
the fresh blue letters G-O-L-D-E-N,

seven years before you went
where our hamster journeyed,
your flying bed
and your gospel choir in the sky.