Andrea Scarpino

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.