some poems make me feel like an asshole (or: a jock poem in two stanzas)

Fall
by Conor Meehan

It was a cool, crisp November morning
when he went away.
The goodbye was short.
I had school.
I didn’t know how.
Part of me wanted to believe
he’d still be there when I got home.
Part of me also knew better.

I scurried off the yellow school bus,
anxious to get home.
Maybe he’d be there.
He wasn’t.
I swam through the sea of
family that had gathered in the dining room.
Finally making it to my room upstairs,
I wept.
Lifting my head from the tear stained pillow,
I peered out the window.
His car was in the driveway.
He wasn’t.