after Eamon Grennan
Cast-off clothes clutter the upstairs hall.
The bathroom begs for mercy.
Cereal boxes gape.
Backpacks are packed and ready.
She flies around the room
trailing hats, gloves, a purple parka,
homework assignments,
lunch money, the cat's meow.
Standing in her shadow, I observe
the geometries of my life
the angles of its seduction.
The school bus lumbers onto the street.
Its octagonal sign swings out.
Flashers flash. Beepers beep.
It's never too late.
The bus door sighs open.
She scales the steps
and disappears into the yellow,
leaving me, alone, in my common world,
derelict, with my misspellings.
