Passing Away

by Ed Meek

Some say “he passed”

as if he just went by

a minute ago.

You missed him.

He was here,

but now he’s gone

and you have no idea

where he went.

Like a bird you saw

taking flight

in the corner

of your eye,

or a fast car

on the highway

at dawn, flying

in the other direction

growing smaller

in the rearview mirror.

But “passed” is really short

for “passed away”

which is more like

the final note

of a piano concerto,

or the last wave

before the tide turns

a lingering smell of smoke

after a fire.

It is not a statement

but a sigh.

It answers the question

with a question.

It is the after

Without the life.

It is not a period,

but an ellipsis…

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Ed Meek has had poems in The Baltimore Review, The Sun, and The Paris Review. His new book, High Tide, came out last September.