On Leaving Home

I think of the clocks

that tick for no one

and the toaster

still giving off heat

I think of the guitar my son plays

strings still reverberating

warmly through empty air 

since his incessant practice of

Wish You Were Here

and puzzle on who the eyes

in photographs follow now

that we’re not there

I think of our daily diaspora

out the door beyond the gate

each on our own
in the places where we go

and I wonder what ghosts

we’ll bring home