William Tell Poem by Francie Lynch

I rolled out and noticed the
Bed across the room. Empty.
The room was cool.
The unwashed everywhere,
And the door was open. Usual.
I had the flights and landings measured.

Funny. His bedroll was not on the couch arm.
I searched.
My mother's kettle whistled; her mug soon filled.
I heard the familiar tsk, the click
Of her teeth, and the spoon circling and swirling
The bag.

Through the window and over the picket fence,
The maple now stood with opposing limb missing.
Like a cactus or fork, and I, soon
To be four.
I once dangled from there, to
Rossini pulsing through my neck to my head,
Above the wheel tracks in the wetness below.

Hmmm. Not behind the couch.
The cupboard?
Under the hanging lace tablecloth?

The T.V. was dead.
The lasso missing.
His initialed boots gone.

So, now I loosened my knotted iodine neckerchief.

Hi-ho, Silver.
Away.