The Vacancy Grows

To a vacuum in the quiet of evenings

Cooking alone recalling

The conversations we used to have,

Like the tasting of the sauce.

A sink devoid of dishes,

A room where all you left

Was 70 cents on the desk.

The tent was folded away,

The counter without crumbs,

Your generic teabags waiting for boiling water

On your return, at tea time.

Dirt Road Series, Part III

You clap

You pant

You raise your voice,

But I will not stop.

We are here to raise you up,

So get up yourself

Down that long gravel road

To town and back again

Hoping the eggs will make it

And you, before dark.

Dirt Road Series, Part II

You stand there begging

Pleading for there to be an easier way,

On the shoulder of the only road.

Your shoes show in layers of red dust

The toil of your walk. Your cry

Will not be assuaged by me.

Pushing against the corner of a fence

With the might of a dung beetle,

Trying without luck to forget about

The bloody wound on its shoulder.

I saw that Kilpspringer once, though,

I feel like I see her everyday.

Dirt Road Series, Part I

What is a hand in the air?

A second of force, 

slightest exertion?

It is less than the least, to say

You might not be alone, I saw

Your need, and we were here

In high-speed, passing neglect.