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Clint Buffington
Looking at a Photo,
Remembering Saying Goodbye to my Neighbor
Something in the summer twilight
begs to be remembered:
the scent and sound of white clothing
fluttering on the line, or your black cat
stepping daintily toward the camera.
Mimosa trees that zip up their fronds,
and horses, listless in the neighbor’s pasture;
someone mowing in the distance, thrumming,
smell of cut grass in the wind
swirling between the garments,
over your cat and our spread blanket,
corners whipping up, and the road—
the asphalt, gravel scent billowing
with the dying heat of day
at the end of summer;
cotton, detergent in the air,
and how two people so close
end up so far apart—
When you left, I tilted back my young head,
squinted into the sun, and waved
at every plane that flew over for weeks—
waving and waving, sure you were up there,
looking down for me—or at least for your house,
and when you saw your house, you’d see me,
and you’d wave back. Surely, you would wave.
©2010 by Clint Buffington
Clint Buffington began studying poetry at the University of Missouri and
obtained a degree in Creative Writing, Poetry from Southern Illinois University in 2007.
He is currently in the Master’s program for Literature at
the University of Kentucky, where he is the poetry editor for their literary journal,
Limestone.
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