I look for a voice,
under the mattress,
behind the dresser,
and even down in the basement corner underneath
layers of spider webs and six or seven shells of roly-polys,
sucked white and left to rot in the dampness.
check beneath the cushions.
maybe it’s there along with enough change
for a pack of smokes to chase a sunset.
follow the faint trace of breath that
nudged one hair on the arm upright,
the last vestige of instinct yet to be driven off
in a shiny ford pick-up to a white picket fence
and two-and-a-half kids.