by William Keller
Spring morning, running alone,
I hear footsteps close behind me,
turn around, see an empty trail,
which gives me a feeling both weird
and familiar from the days right
after somebody’s gone, when there’s
both a presence and absence
following me home….
*
I start again,
and the phantom does, too, reach back,
know I could stop it, but let go,
hoping it will jog my memory.
Sure enough, in the shade of cliffs
(stacked shale, ferns and moss, red
columbine climbing one face),
I remember the camp stove’s blue hiss,
goldenrod the flower and
the creamy dish of béchamel
and Easter eggs, sisters laughing
until they can’t stop, that drive
to Apalachicola
and the oyster place, pitcher plants
right by the road. Salt-free fries
cooked fresh, delicious. Federer
versus Djokovic. The Knicks.
*
The people I miss weren’t runners, then,
but remembering brings them out.
That and the uncannily
accurate sound of the hood
bouncing behind my head….
*
Bill Keller is a photographer, novelist, and poet who lives in the Hudson Valley.