by Harvey Schwartz

Sera wipes the counter clean.
A silhouette
wanders through
tuna fish casseroles

drifts back to an
empty home
with just a note
after three years.

I look at her nametag.
Do you pronounce that Sarah?

She barely nods
blue plate special
heavy on her arm,

notepad, pencil
worn dress, white shoes,

shrouded dreams lost
behind coke bottle glasses.

She squints at today
while drifting out
to vacant fields
with empty barn eyes,

lone wolf
howling in the hills.

Harvey Schwartz learned Americana growing up on the east coast. He unlearned it at Woodstock, a hippie commune, and during extensive hitchhiking. A long chiropractic career offered another perspective. He’s been published in The Sun, Clover, and Whatcom Writes. Bellingham Repertory Dance and Snowdance Film Festival have featured his work.