A lozenge, a smoke, advice about my skirts
and sons—people offer me things. Condolences.

Leaflets: I shake my head, and still a man

shoves one in my hand. Somehow he knows 
that at the moment of truth, when he lets go,
I will not, that I will not let him make me 

an accessory to litter. 
                                         With little children, 
it’s crackers, sampled and damp; with dogs, 
it’s rabbits; and with neighbors, the tardy

surplus from zucchini vines. I have yet to parse
how much of it is munificence: the eagerness
of givers, my reluctance to say no.