Echo

The house is without onions,

grey has overdrawn the sky.

Silent cell phone in the other room

begs an echo.

The young girl's cat,

missing the girl,

nests anew 

in every chair.

We pretend to read,

fingers following every line,

but lacking pictures the pages

stay unturned.

It might as well be

the one night Jesus

lay dead.

Even the motor gunning trucks

are dry leaves in a blind alley.

Separation is not a mother's

favorite skill.

Bum ankle creaking stairs,

I cart the coffee trey and cereal,

ancient altar boy in steaming

processional.

As the cups are finished,

the calendar fast forwards

toward return.