by Darryl Willis
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.
Darryl Willis is a native Texan who has lived in Louisiana, Arkansas and Tennessee. He works for an international nonprofit organization and travels frequently to the Ukraine. This poem has never been published.