by Robert Tremmel
This morning, you left without saying goodbye. The first time. I heard the front door close, then the garage-- although it is only August the leaves on the ash tree in the front yard are already turning yellow already we had granola for breakfast blueberries and tea well I had tea you did not beetles are stacked two and three deep screwing on the roses I was worried about the beetles you were not soon children will be walking by to school some for the first time I will worry about them too and the blueberries how long can they last sirens over on First Street heading east it was only yesterday I made pickles more jars are in the dishwasher-- and then the tires bearing more than the weight of your car, rolling silently into the street. ______ Robert Tremmel lives and writes in Ankeny, Iowa. He’s published poems and academic articles in a wide range of journals, and has published five collections of poetry, including The Records of Kosho the Toad (Bottom Dog Press, 2018). His most recent collection is The Return of the Naked Man (Brick Road Poetry Press, 2021), which won the Brick Road Poetry Prize.