How I Know

Outside the window,
a field gone to weeds,
three cottonwoods
holding what wind they can,
houses built fast enough
to believe they'll last.

Somebody once thought
this was a place
to begin a life.

You're somewhere else—
slippers beside the bed,
keys in your pocket
or lost beneath a coat
that remembers your shoulders
better than I do.

The chair across from me
keeps its promise.
The hallway waits
for footsteps.

I've sat here so long
the dog lifts his head
whenever gravel speaks.

A red-tailed hawk
lands on the broken swing set.
It studies me.

There are towns
where people leave so slowly
houses forget
they're empty.

The next sound
is someone
coming home.

Jim Zola is a poet and photo artist living in North Carolina.