March2Poem: Goodbye Dad, until next season.

Riding there – yellow of cab and smell
Of dusty upholstery trapping
Motes of ash and skin and citydirt – we sat
Silent. Talking through our sameness. Needn’t mention
The view. He’ll be thinking
The same as I.

Riding back – yellow of straining moon
And smell of wet grease and sponges
Over nostrils – I was in the minutes between
The first drop off and classroom where you fight
The effort to cry because it’s
Unseemly.

Arrived home – floor stopping my shoulders
Bouncing, nose painfully propping my pink face up:
the floorboards are so close the
tears splash back
into their own ducts to be cried again – this could be
Neverending.


-Rae