Presumed Dead

We noticed too late, printed and posted the missing signs,
set the rewards too little too late and called in the authorities
only after presumed dead.

Blinded by the distraction of pity fucks and silent breakfasts,
passive aggressive looks and meals out drinks out anythings out,
it slipped out covert.

It left a note, a eulogy really, and between the politeness of forced
conversation the words erased themselves, itself realising, relenting,
“what’s the point?”

Maybe if there’d been shouts, domestics we’d have seen it coming,
going going gone, evidence lost and we blinked it out of vision
and into complacency.

And then it was gone, I’d like to say stolen, taken without force
by the apathy of time and ease of avoidance, a space reserved
on the back of a milk carton.

So now I place flowers at the foot of the bed it passed in,
praying someday a safe return whether aged or alternate I’ll hold vigil,
lost in that old sell out – Some Day…

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