I have not written a poem about the day we left Marcus. I don’t know if I ever will.
The day of the sale was beautiful. Late September. Warm. Bright blue.
My father sat on the porch while his life was sold.
I wish I had bought the house.
I know it was sold to a good woman who blessed the day. Her name said it all. Joy.
But it closed a door on a past.
And I regret it. Always will.
I will move on. Retire to another home. Without a past.
And so it goes.