And you, who once were bustle, quick step,
race, water running for a shave, radio playing
basketball games, mowing, cooking,
tinkering. Hospital bed, most still I’d seen.
I stared at your chest, swore I saw you breathe.
Five years you didn’t drive and yet
I listen for your car horn beeping up and down
the street, red Thunderbird, station wagon,
Jeep, short blasts of home, I’m home,
a mile away, or early morning light
before the paper came, I’m leaving, going, gone.