Missing

You'd think if I got lost, someone would miss me,
or notice only air where I had been.
And so they would
miss
notice
wonder out loud
where I'd gone, how long
since anybody'd seen me.
Had I said good-bye,
called, written,
hinted?
(As though words might be made to answer.)

They would - though not right away perhaps -
have made inquiries.
They who make so many sorts of things.

But no one's noticed
I am gone.

Because I'm standing here
they will refuse to wonder
or inquire.
They will not look for me.

And some old woman answers my front door.
My ailments wrack her frame.
She wears my shoes.
She tries get my bearings.
I tell her she should
let somebody know.
She says
she can't think
who,
or what to say.