He Never Came Back

Mama kept the porch light burnin' since the night he drove away. Said he'd be

back by Sunday supper, but that supper turned to gray. His boots still

sit by the doorway, his jacket's on the chair. And every time

the wind kicks up, it feels like he's still there. He never came

back, though the dog still waits by the old oak tree

and the rusted gate. We searched the roads, we prayed,

we cried, but silence was the only reply. He left a hole no time

could patch. He said goodbye, but he never came back. Granddad carved his