I am still here,
at a bus stop in Vermont,
backpack leaning on a bench,
car curving away on the blacktop.
Still here, growing smaller
in the distance of your memory.

On a map
I trace your route north,
blue veins for highways,
black dots for towns
and teardrops for lakes.
You drive on,
the car following the road,
the road outlining the river,
the river molded against the mountains,
the moon,
low, yellow and hopeless,
following through the trees,
and everything,
everything pulled
into the draft of your departure.

Published in Rip Rap, New Works Review