You're Still Here Somehow

I thought I heard you the other day.

I didn't, because you're not here.

But if I close my eyes, I can still remember the details,

A creaky wooden chair with a country blue cushion facing the sliding glass door,

the glass is open, but the screen remains.

You're black shoes rest beneath the kitchen table,

I'm surprised they never left an imprint in the carpet there.

Thick, round glasses cover your milky eyes, 

matched with a smile that only deepens your wrinkles.

You used to sit down and pull out a cigarette,

Ashtray patiently waiting at your right, 

You would blow the smoke through the screen,

To the porch in the back,

The paint was peeling, but the garden was more important anyway.

Next was the crisp crack of a new beer can,

You're day wasn't complete without one,

And it leaves a hole to not see you with one

And it leaves a hole to not see you.