Disappearing
I’d like to cap this pen, lock the drawers,
and take my coat off the chair. I’d stop
the clocks at half-past two, then grab my keys
and drive away—no notes, no calls, the lights
still blazing from every room. I’d start no cults,
I’m sure. There’d be no acolytes who swear
they’d seen me drinking beer in Mexico,
no sunburnt tourists saying Yes! I saw him
at a truckstop in Des Moines. I’d just be gone,
like stars swallowed by the mackerel-light of dawn.
Read the Rumpus Review of Rob Griffith’s The Moon From Every Window.
