The phrase in my head,
the last line to the chorus
of an unwritten song—
my upbeat blank sheet
that needs to smile
at the truth, to be both
pleased and vulnerable, a
Bobby Bare song that applies
to loving and dying well—
when it’s all done,
there’s nothin’ more
to leavin’ than goodbye.
Perhaps her eyes go
early in the first verse
to search unfamiliar scenery,
then his retreat
to the wordless sounds
of rivers and streams—
one we can all sing
when there’s nothin’ more
to leavin’ than goodbye.
drycrikjournal 