ignore this
sometimes
when I pass his chair.
Minds do that:
fly
tree to tree like a hawk
sensing a heart nearby.
Today I sit in his chair
and feel he
might come back.
His whole beautiful self
now getting a break from
clocks and scales--
all that holds me here.
One day he might show up again.
I’ll say Hon, where have you been?
I’ll say Don’t leave like that again
And his right hand
will fold around my left.
How true this feels though none
can say for sure
so I sit in his favorite chair
and watch for signs
like a hawk.
