I am hanging underneath an iron bar,
little shoulders aching,
sweaty fingers scraping off ochre with each sad little swing.
You are leaving and I am wearing a grubby white shirt.
The one with the little train on it.

Your leaving is not like in the movies,
which is all I know of leaving,
and you are not looking back at me through the dusty rear window as your family pulls away.
There is no little hand waiving me goodbye.
Simply, one minute you are there
and the next you are gone
and I am all alone.

Your house stood vacant for a season or two
and I would sneak into your back yard,
our back yard,
and stare into the empty rooms.
The plate glass was cool against my forehead
but something inside of me smouldered.

The new owners did not have a collie
or a pesky little sister
and they certainly did not have you.

I am waiting there.

I am still waiting.