March 4, 2017


From the kitchen

my wife texts

that breakfast is ready,

her way of seeing

if I've fallen back asleep,

as she waits even now

for my hurried reply.

If only we could

text the dead,

ask if they're okay,

if they need anything

we could drop off

with the concierge

in their new building,

the only way I know

how to reach them, now,

since my prayers

keep falling on deaf ears,

no one getting back

like they swore they would.

I'd prefer a subtle haptic,

just a sign to let me know

they're out there somewhere,

waiting for me to visit,

under new stones looking

too fresh to fit in,

still residing more within me

than in the place

they have gone.