And then there were no sons to adopt.
You had debts and an unfinished
album. You forgot your keys
on the dresser and all the drawers
were pulled out like in a movie
about a botched robbery. The eggs
were cold on the stove
and you could hear pigeons flapping
their heavy wings outside.
What was missing
was a second bedroom glowing with stars
on the ceiling for you to have seen
from the doorway while you listened
to your living sons breathe. No growing boys
in pajamas watching cartoons
and having seconds of cereal.
No one for any of us
to actually save.
About the Author: Bobby Elliott is a poet and writer based in Charlottesville, Virginia. His poems have appeared in the Huffington Post, the Ocean State Review and the Sarah Lawrence Review. His writing on art and poetry has also appeared in the Huffington Post, Tribes and elsewhere. Starting this fall, he’ll be earning his MFA from the University of Virginia.