poem

There are children’s footprints
in the snow just outside my window.
Only a few years ago I paced the floors
of my studio apartment while talking to
myself. Now though, there’s a five year old
under my desk as I type. He’s thumbing
through Charles Bukowski’s The Last Night
Of The Earth Poems while asking me
questions about wolves. I still talk to
myself. But the emptiness is gone.

-M. Taggart