Auricles
       

When the cat hid one of your hearing aids
in my hiking boot, I walked down the trail
with its rub. My big toe heard a mole
tunnel among sassafras roots, a rabbit

thump its warning. We don't have conversations
the way we once did. No longer
do I ask a question from another room,
talk with my back turned. Now, it's face

to face. When the phone rings for you,
I walk rooms, hallways, rap on closed doors.
Absurd to be annoyed when I cannot
imagine you gone, the house an echo,

your office a space for guests. Do you know
at night, when I round the corner
into our room, the first thing I look for
is the hill of your feet beneath the sheet?

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Copyright © 2019 Peg Bresnahan All rights reserved
from Hunger to Share
Press 53
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission