The place I used to visit,
On bad days,
With yoghurt and spoon,
Is vacant.

The leaves are raked,
Into a neat pile,
By the bench,

And except for the newspaper,
Blowing about in the wind,
There is no-one here.

The river beyond,
Is a murky brown,
Same as it’s always been,

But,

Over the concrete wall,
On the sandy bank,
Is a briefcase.

Is it yours?

My name is Henry,
And I’ve been disappearing for years.

I can’t seem to find my way home.