photo by Darryl Willis

Driftwood

You say you won’t miss him when he’s gone;
and yet, you know it isn’t true.
When he leaves the day will sift through
your hands like only so much sand.
Your mouth is dry as the plains he
disappears into, the day
the dust disperses red by the West
Texas wind. He tumbled into
your life: a passing sage skeleton
caught by the rigidness
of your severe need. Now the day
is red and the sun is amber
like the tumbler on your kitchen counter.

Originally Published in Deep South Magazine | February 21, 2010