Because No One Is Living In the House

Because No One Is Living

In the House

my daughter's pink bike

on the training wheels

I straightened out

after her first tumble

is being slowly

covered up

as it sits

near the back porch

where the snow drifts;

no one is pulling on overcoat

and gloves

over two layers

of flannel to shovel

on Saturday morning;

no one is leaning

at night

on the swaying

tire swing

watching more snow

blow in,

smoking Captain Black,

tapping the pipe

on the glazed bark of the huge

maple,

watching gusts

chase the bright sparks

over the drifts;

no one listens

to the bare limbs sway

black against

an almost white

night sky;

no light

spills from the kitchen

windows;

the woodstove is cold as it is

black.

Because we have moved,

and no one has bothered

to crowd the pantry with

Bisquick, beans,

hot chocolate and Malt O' Meal,

and no TV babbles

at the foot of the stairs,

pancakes will not sweeten

the morning air;

no one will ask

to take her plate

and glass

of milk

to the living room

to avoid missing Looney

Toons.

Because we are gone,

the part we could not help

leaving behind is being

slowly

covered ---

tires, wheels, seat,

handles,

horn,

details become

obscured, even to us,

until we forget

things---

the hardness of

a sidewalk on a shin,

an elbow---

and know only

this strange absence.