Bread Crumbs

“I have gone looking for myself. If I should return before I come back keep me here.”

-Yogi Berra 

She had leaned over

the rail of the balcony

and somehow lost her footing.

It was a good thing she had always thought ahead

As she was most certainly dead.

She had been eating a scone.

And in that final lonely picnic

her soul walked out of her body.

Her bread crumbs still fresh on the patio,

this is where her soul lingers

But she dead, still young,

her fiber broken.

She must be in a hospital but all

around her, no matter how far or fast

she walked was the old house

And in her head: a deafening noise

her will along with the replies echoed.

It was a large house.

The place was empty if not for her

Yet someone was calling to her

the television set was on,

a hot cup of tea was steaming

The piano was open with sheets of music spread upon

its face.

Yet she could only roam that

old house, where it was always dark 

and each floor told a story

Running down the stairs to the

basement where the dolls are to the higher floors, sorry,

up there where the people were.

The voices were arguing now,

“How old is she?” There should be a

cake somewhere for her

to tell. As she is pushed forward

To the balcony where the picnic was, 

Still the murmur.

And the attic where the old things are.

It had always been dark even when

the lights were on. She remembered

flying. And she

is on the driveway face down

on the pavement, alone, before

her feet push on once more.

The coyotes are howling and

the house is dark.

It is cold as she rides the wind

Unable to stop or unwilling

The will is read “You already said that!” 

Her husband’s voice: It sounds angry.

It has feeling now.

The doors were too heavy

The window was open

She runs faster to

the top of the hill.

A bobcat is grinning and

the trees are dead up there, where her

queen bed—more like a king’s—is. 

She remembered falling but never hitting the ground.

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