Of course the dead do not come back

I know, I know        and yet 

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.