Where is she?

She was never home
not in the attic, cellar, foyer
anywhere: bedrooms
vestibule, hall
cupboards, closets
hanging in the belfry
in neither nook nor alcove
quarters nor cupola
at no time was she there
literally gone
and you could look for days
under eaves, up in rafters
slinking through crawlspaces…
and she wasn’t on it
looking out over the rooftops of others
people within them all
doing all those living things they do
no need to enumerate
because gone is gone
in thoughts and space
soon, it’ll be unknown
she’s not home
unknown it ever was her home
lost to history
to dead star, to cold vacuum
and that’s unpleasant
existentially poop-drawers
yet what’s worse
is for now, knowing
it’ll be a relief not to
tick-tick, tock-tock
is my wife in the cuckoo clock?
no, it’s me.

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