​

⸎

 

Absolutely nothing has made its home here in my absence and that’s somewhat surprising.       Disappointing. 

​

Doesn’t stop my hand from twitching.

​

            Empty—my kingdom remains empty.

​

From Stormer’s Cove, (27 minutes 10 seconds to reach

the top on my one lame leg now), the park looks eerily peaceful.  

Even the crackledile swamps look placid.

 

A few mustard-colored trees offer zero signs of the skeletal

buzzards; no lumps lurking in the sienna moss.

Sludge puddles aren’t bubbling like usual.

​

                                      My eyes scan the horizon again for scabbers.                                  

Wishful, drunken, desperate.

​

Something, anything to add to my underground altar.

​

          Little tremors race through ruddy veins, jostling my hand for a fix.

​

___________________________________________________________

​

The first time my hand felt such an unnatural rush

I had just disappeared a boy three years my junior.

 

Orders were barked in my direction but that’s no excuse.

 

He fell tumbling down a hill and I didn’t even blink.

​

When he splashed into a creek at the base, I didn’t even blink.

​

            I was given a brand-new tally patch for this,

basically a point for the home team.

​

            Home team, as if the idea of home could mean anything anymore.

 

___________________________________________________________

​

In the intervening years, I have been trying

to teach myself how to blink again.

 

⸎

​