I used to write poetry quite a bit, but one of my college professors ruined them for me. Thus, I haven’t written a poem since college. I might be a little rusty.



Fuji from the window,
a clear, cloudless morning.
Empty room; we call it
the spare room,
a place for junk and boxes
and homeless things.
A hot room, a cold room;
lonely room,
we avoid it for months,
not yet ready for you.

Fuji from the chair,
the most comfortable chair
in the apartment.
I sit and daydream of you,
of singing to you, a sleepy you,
a sleepy me,
heavy with newborn fatigue.
A happy me and you,
we sit and wait and watch
for your father coming home.

Fuji from the crib,
darkened and night-hid,
his unseen presence.
Your unseen presence
weighs me down, heavier
than when I carried you.
I expected to be awakened
by your tears;
my tears fall instead,
endless, useless.

Fuji from the window,
hidden, curtained,
shielding his face from
the empty room.
Your room, lonely room;
lonely heart, my heart.
We take the memories
with us but leave behind
the echo of a you
who never came home.