Jennifer Lynn Utterback
Gone Away
Waiting at the curb, patiently
and silently, watching cars
whiz pass like bees on those
sticky summer days when you
sat in your chair and listened
to the rain's pitter patter
on the awning as I splish
splashed in the puddles,
I pray you'll come to pick
me up, as you used to,
everyday, like a rooster's
call at sunrise, with sweets
to spoil my supper. Spotting
a hearse slipping by I
remember all that is left of
you is dust in a grave and a
butt mark on a plaid pale
green chair at the window.
Wandering home, I'm as
careful as a reporter
scooping a scandal to
pounce in all the puddles.
