The house is without onions,
grey has overdrawn the sky.
Silent cell phone in the other room
begs an echo.
The young girl's cat,
missing the girl,
nests anew 
in every chair.

We pretend to read,
fingers following every line,
but lacking pictures the pages
stay unturned.
It might as well be
the one night Jesus
lay dead.

Even the motor gunning trucks
are dry leaves in a blind alley.
Separation is not a mother's
favorite skill.

Bum ankle creaking stairs,
I cart the coffee trey and cereal,
ancient altar boy in steaming
As the cups are finished,
the calendar fast forwards
toward return.

Will SchmitComment