When I drop you off at drama school
elevators will shoot to the top floor
and keep going. A thousand crows
will explode from dense foliage to circle,
croaking a good-bye.
Dust balls will gather under the chairs
and I won’t notice. In the blue of evening
a stone blanket unwinds.
The splintery mountains of North Carolina
will hiss at you to call home
as demographers disappear daily
into the kudzu vines. LPs float out of boxes,
the night fills with jitterbugs rocking.
Still, it will be way too quiet. So think of me
as purple apostrophes linger in the corners,
as balloons nibble boldly at the wind.
