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 Return
TRANSPORT
That
whisper of a winter night
I left the hospital late,
after you
fell asleep, drove
the dark, double curve past
that musty railroad terminal,
over the bridge, into your town.
I put a record on, remembering
to iron your best white
shirt
knowing you'd need it soon.
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I
drank a double scotch,
as Sinatra sang "Where Are You?",
walked your hunting dog around
the yard and garden, lay down
on your side of the bed, not to see
the empty space before me.
I watched the lights of late cars
touch our bedroom ceiling, slip
away, disappearing in darkness.
Night-speaking trees leaned on
the faint light of dawn when two
sharp
rings of the phone came.
I made a list, washed my
hair, fixed
the porch light, dressed in unmatched
clothes and called my mother.
The dog ran excited circles
when I packed your hunting jacket
in the box for flood relief.
She doesn't understand
and looks for you everywhere.
I can't make her stop.
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