Found Isaac’s bed empty
and then Abraham didn’t stumble
down the steps, eyes half-shut,
like he always does
for my scrambled eggs and toast.
Checked the garage:
the Ford was gone.
And then I found a note
about some dream, a trip
the two of them had to make.

I puttered in my flower bed,
rearranged some furniture in the den,
started pacing when the sun went down
and I’d not gotten any texts.
I had my fingers on the phone
to call the cops
when I heard the car
come chugging up the drive,
the doors slam shut.
The two of them came clomping up the steps,
Isaac two feet behind. He never stopped,
went straight to bed. All Abraham said was,
God, how I love that kid.