Why does the house stay clean
when you’re not here? I miss
your dust, your scrunched-up socks,
your bags and your pants,
the pants found under the bed,
bags in a prime location
at the bottom of the stairs.

I miss you. This is not
a poem which would seek
to hide it’s meaning,
interpreted only by
Higher Powers.

I kiss your image on my iPad,
tell you so and you see for yourself
because it is video, live,
from far away,
too far to touch,
a touchscreen, though,
lets us see. I see you.

I am haunted or possessed,
I cannot say which
or even if either
is really true
or just me
banging around
inside.

I am not lonely for want of you,
I am not without purpose or rhyme
and yet, there is a piece of me
on standby, hold please caller
while I try. I know
you’ll be home. But why
can it not be tonight?

The clock bitches the hour
and I love, love, love you.