it is winter not autumn
but I feel the leaves rustle
under
my feet
all
brown now
after
the fall of leaves
barren
landscape
a sense of change
not nearly the prodigal son
allowed to return to
my
hometown roost
finding
it empty of
what I might have valued most
I stir the leaves as I walk
reading
them the way
I might tea leaves
or
fortune cookies
and
search of some meaning
some
logic
something
that will
help
me make sense
of
what was and will be
the acute vacancy inside me
as
well as the office
her
presence still lingering
her voice echoing in the rafters
like a ghost
what point there is in all this
wishing and hoping
when in the end
it all
comes up empty
like that Cracker Jack box
we always open but fine no prize inside
I live
here in a cracker Jack's box
of my
own making
and it
is completely empty
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