On a Son Gone to College

Jun 12, 2016 by

I stop at your open door,
stare at the empty chair, your clear desk
Punched by the zesty smell,
my mind, stirred and swirled
of you there, hunched over,
frenetic, reading, writing,
singing to relieve the stress,
striving for success.

Now me here,
dewy eyed, misty cheeked,
body weak.

One day
I’ll have the courage to walk in,
sit at your desk,
rub my hands on the arms of the chair,
feel your essence.
Then I’ll find that smelly sock under your bed,
empty the trash filled with tissue,
and vacuum the rug.

But for now I simply close the door
and walk on by.

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