Goodbye
To live in a place
long enough to know
whole tonal ranges
of color and sound
between shrubbery
and asphalt.
In exile, the gaps
become companions—
how they relieve the senses
swarmed by traffic’s
shattered music.
Now, in summer’s rut,
I stand in a parking lot
under an overhang
and watch white threads of rain
evaporate the instant
they collapse into the ground.
And the heat makes a sound, eating rain.
I had a mild panic when I got a notification that just said "Goodbye." I was relieved it was just an excellent poem and you weren't leaving Substack.
That last line! I’ll never look at rain hitting hot asphalt the same way!