Absence
by Bryce Alan Flurie

After heaving a tractor out of the
grandest woodchuck hole in Central Pennsylvania,
the cast iron hung back on the wall
after dinner without you,
all that’s left is to drink our
pot of Darjeeling without your
old yellowed mug beside mine,
and wish you back across oceans.

But now, children cry and
clothes need folded,
and the damned sugar bowl
needs filled again.
Ah, but then
a bluebird lands
on the rusty clothesline pole.