USA

WHAT DEPRESSION LEAVES

They leave their bodies
with us, walk,
sigh, eat too--
steaming stew with
quartered potatoes,
celery floating
like abandoned sailboats
on top of a gurgling,
persimmon sea.
The question is not where
they leave their shipwrecked
thoughts, but if they'll return
to pick stickers from the 
heels of their shoes
pack the garbage
down tight into the can,
recognize the cross-hatched lines
on the back of our hands.
The slight turn of their
head, the solid weight of 
hand on knee, the
leaning in just so--
you miss that most.
You cannot look long
on someone changed, gape
at the place where blue fire has
turned to ash.

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