sometimes they just come

This was originally going to be a full on post about a true story. And then, it just morphed into a poem. I haven't written a poem in years. And this is how it used to happen, they would just come.




Question

A child once asked his mother
“Who was that man that
used to take out the garbage?”
I wonder how she answered him.
His young brain couldn’t
have comprehended
the details of adult relationships.

I wonder if that was the last time
he saw his father,
leaving from the back door,
probably through the kitchen,
a white cinched bag in his left hand,
his silhouette slipping through
the crack of the open door.