because I can’t say goodbye

i sat in your car
a passenger finally
at her destination.

I didn’t get out,
preferring aloneness
over crowd.

I don’t recall
someone asking me in.

I watched bushes
sway beside new
yellow siding I assumed gray.

the sky portrayed
my emptiness
I’ve heard is God in-between.

trees were waving
hello through the glass,
before i turned to tissues

you always kept in this
small cup with a green top
for allergies or colds.

half-full, I picture
you in the driver’s seat,
the red or green jacket

& the white wool hat
over your chilled ears.
you always prevented ear infection.

the backseat held
reusable green grocery
bags you weekly filled.

graham crackers.

pork chops.
mashed potatoes.
green beans.


a pair of shoes
you’ll never wear
resided in one,

my memories
quiet in the others,
scared one day I’ll forget.


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