These are the extraordinary fiascos
our chests go heaving toward the airport
for. Or, as you already may well know,
Thursdays with the sky a desperate
codependent burden against crumbly brick
that moves with time to residue, can turn to
streams of clouds that lead along long
furrowed paths into autumn weekend
getaways. There are always the departure signs:
A hint of hair strand between fingertips, your
reflection in the mirror, and the sense you had either
over- or under-cooked that casserole in the dwindling
stretch of afternoon. Regardless of neglect,
or the absent-mindedness required for absolution,
a pair of hand-molded potholders waves from the magic hook
pressed magnetically against refrigerator side. You wonder
do they signal you, or motion for the sky surrounding? Translate
and decipher every omen, wonder at the hello
and then at the goodbye.