Landscaping

Today I walked past where you called home,
the front porch,
where we sat for hours,
whispering like we were talking about the shrubs
who knew us better than we did,
who could have told us how to
fix these lives we have put out in the ashtray,
but instead felt it necessary
to keep silent,
only speaking to the wind
when she shook them from stillness.
But they could have fixed it.
They could have told you
not to leave the porch,
not to leave the house,
not to leave the kids...
Not to leave me.
I'm here, now,
wanting to go through the door
to tell you I'm alive.
But the door on which I need to knock
is not the one you walked out of.
Because no matter how many times
I walk through these walls,
searching for you,
the shrubs remain silent
as I ask whatever will listen
if you have come back yet.
I talk to the bricks and the windows,
the awning,
the sidewalk,
the trash can, filled with your
leftover waste, but still has the inability to
regurgitate your comfort.
Then I see the feline guardian
sitting under a whispering tree
that finally spits a reply.
You're still gone.