WE WON’T BE LEAVING BY THE SAME WAY THAT WE CAME
COLLECTED POEMS
by
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Fifty-two days later I went to church this morning, And lit a candle for you. And most days I wonder where you are. Which usually happens at the oddest times. Like when I’m tying my shoes, Or standing at the pump putting gas in the car. Where are you, J? When I placed my hand On your forehead at the viewing, It was cold. And of course it was. I don’t know what I was expecting. Some sort of residual warmth. Sparks rising from the last embers of a fire. A flicker of former residency. A hawk riding the thermals high up in a summer sky. Now the light comes up so slow in the mornings. Excruciatingly gray. Another day slumps into the room. Where are you, J? I’ve had three dreams About you since the funeral. In the first, we were kids again, And you’re sitting on our old brown couch on the back lawn. The one you still keep in your basement, And B falls asleep watching hockey. We are talking and laughing the way we would When Mom and Dad were out at one of their meetings, And we had the evening to ourselves. In the second, It’s nighttime and you’re walking Ahead of me in the dark. You’re surrounded by fireflies, So many they make you glow. And in my dream I’m trying to keep up with you, But you’re walking too fast, Farther and farther ahead. And then you stop, And lift your arm, And do one of those ballet things with your wrist, So that the fireflies flare up around your hand Like magic from a wand, And you disappear.
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About the Book
In We won’t be leaving by the same way that we came, Rich Spencer presents a narrative-driven collection of poetry grounded in memory, inheritance, and the strange beauty hiding inside of ordinary days. These poems trace the emotional geography of family — fathers and sons, lost children, aging parents, marriage, and the long legacy of generational grief. Unfolding in hospital rooms, empty highways, late-night kitchen conversations, and childhood memory, Spencer’s work inhabits the intimate spaces where love and loss converge. His voice is direct yet meditative, blending storytelling with lyric reflection to examine faith, doubt, endurance, and the search for meaning across the arc of midlife. At once personal and communal, this collection considers how we carry what came before us — and how the act of remembering reshapes the road ahead. It is a work attentive to the fragile intersections of tenderness, anger, humor, and grace. Poetry that resists abstraction in favor of lived experience, We won’t be leaving by the same way that we came invites readers into an unflinching meditation on survival, belonging, and the quiet labor of becoming.
About the Author
A Canadian by birth, Rich grew up in Southern Ontario and is a first-generation immigrant to the United States where he has lived and worked for the last thirty-five years. He has a BA in English Literature from Huntington University in Huntington, IN and an MFA in writing from Hamline University in St. Paul, MN. By profession, Rich is a patented product designer with a long-standing career in consulting and technology. He rides antique motorcycles, wrenches on old Volvos and likes to bake. Rich lives with his partner and their family in the Midwest.