How long will the school hold off
before pestering Dad about my absence?
Will they call the police if he shuffles, stammers,
says he isn’t sure where I am?
And how will Dad prove to anyone
I left willingly
and am not
buried in the garden?
Perhaps he is searching the streets
trying to find me,
reach me,
bring me back.
I don’t want him to discover me here
but I want him to try –
to be sad
he has lost me.
Yet.
Sometimes I think,
if only
he had just buried me in the garden.
Everything would be easier.