chalk-scratch home

we won’t find you now, in the drive
where someone’s left a grey flannel shirt
gangled across the back seat of the blue chevy.

nor will we find you in the tattered armchair
near the dusty oak shelf with the audubon book
with the birds & stories you loved.

we won’t find you in the stillness of that hour
when a carpenter with grey callused hands &
a tired heart can return

to a table in a burnt-orange chicago bungalow
where near the doorway you’ve chalk-scratched
HOME.

forgetful,
in early spring, we might think of you
as a brown bear emerging from his den

to hear the icicle’s drip &
river’s hush
beside the ghost tree.

but this is no country for furry sleepwalkers &
since winter’s deep-freeze, you have grown claws
to tear at our words.