There are missing people,
missing puzzle pieces,
that one dust bunny you missed
when sweeping the living
room corners. Missing left
socks and right gloves, missing
cloth on the knees of your worn
pair of missing jeans. The dinner
your husband missed working
late last week.
There’s the missing stuffed lion
your son says he grew out of,
and the single missing forearm
of the berry farmer’s his left arm,
though he manages the stubbed ending
two inches below the elbow
expertly when he passes over
your quart of blackberries.
And sometimes the missing people
feel like those missing limbs,
and the misplaced toys feel like lost
innocence, and the lone dust bunny
in the corner
just feels lonely.