someone is always leaving
I was twelve years old before
I met someone who had never moved
and I discovered I was the strange one
because I was accustomed to suitcases
I was twenty-nine before I had friend
for ten years and had stayed close enough
to grow our friendship face to face
instead of recalling memories
I turned forty-five the same year I
lived in the same house for a decade
when the Standells sang, “O Boston,
you’re my home” I could sing along
I am sixty-two and still not used to
being on the staying side of goodbye
the leaving side never got any easier
and yet someone is always leaving . . .
Peace,
Milton
