I knew that you were getting ready to leave.
I’ve had the same dream
twice this week.
The first time, I returned from somewhere
and I thought you were
writing poetry out in the kitchen
… but, you were, in fact, misting paper.
The second time, you were seated,
out in the garden, only it wasn’t this garden,
it was one like we’ve talked about
attached to the house that you’ve wanted
ever since you were a small child.
I approached from the side,
and saw your face, doing its ‘Thing’,
where everything going on around you
has just STOPPED affecting you,
and you are oblivious to all but your Art.
You were surgically cross-hatching a top hat
upon a Dense Figure Riding,
and muttering, under your breath “South-West”.
Take that Graveyard Trail back soon
… your eyes always look like Autumn
when you boy-shrug, and say quick Goodbyes.