Absence

There are 12 years

Folded into a room at the end of the hall

but no one sleeps there

There are three place settings for dinner

but only two chairs are filled

The dogs go out

and the chickens are fed

but there are no feet

running over the floor

there is no music

coming from the room

at the end of the hall

The phone rings at seven every night.

I know his voice
before I hear it.

Or I think I do.

Then the call ends

and the hallway stays quiet.

I keep listening for the music down the hall

for the footsteps that don't belong to anyone else in the house

they don't tell you about absence

everything else keeps happening

The case manager still calls.

The voices are still there,
only now they're being heard
in a sterile room.

Medication arrives
in little white cups.

And here,
my hand is empty

And life goes on.

His shoes still float in the hallway,

untied,

waiting for feet.

The animals sneak into his room
as if they haven't noticed
he's gone.

I haven't moved anything.

I don't know how to make room
for someone
who is coming home