How to Repair a Broken Floor

There’s such a tile

on my kitchen floor

where phantom noises

come to play.

The exact spot

is aurally ingrained,

and I can even tell you

which numbered square

that one is:

masked singer.

If you were to count in

from east

or south

or north...

whichever wall,

one, two, warmer.

Stop, it’s right there!

Even though

I know enough

to expect it,

a faint chirrup,

whenever

I happen to carry

through this way,

I am instead

caught by surprise

whenever my toes land

inadvertently

on that invisibly-

marked patch,

an event unplanned.

What’s that I hear?!

I always stop,

perplexed,

whatever task afoot,

and ask myself,

can it be?

That strain, did

I perceive…?

Surely not.

But could it be?

I pause and wait.

For nothing.

And then slowly,

quietly, hush now,

I move one foot

and place it gingerly

down again, once, twice more,

trying to repeat

the same trill.

Pray give me back

that favored melody!

I want it so.

Why is it, I can’t command

the sweet

familiar notes?

They arrive

not on demand,

not even when I target

like a marksman

the very pin point —

(as surely I know

every inch)

of my own… floor.

But no! Only,

when not invited,

it’s there! There!

Who else can hear

that triadic chime?!

You’re shaking your head;

silk ears flopping.

Hooray — you’re awake!

If only for one magical moment.

Come to me, here boy,

(the music swells)

and scamper you do!

That familiar click-clack,

nails on tile,

old tail wagging,

hot breath, cold nose,

pink tongue, wet kiss.

Or maybe a hug, can I enjoy

that press of your soft fur

once more?

*inhale*

What gifted bliss.

And then,

full stop,

hits tons of bricks.

Dumbfounded, bowled over,

I’m thunderstruck; and

lost in fog.

The coda: Heart pangs,

Throat lump,

deep breaths.

Hello salty tear.

Now, now,

steady hands grab

cool granite.

And finally then...

all is still.

—-The silence aches.

I miss you so, best friend.

And I will never

repair

that loose tile.