We were always misplacing things:
our car keys, our checkbook, our minds.
Once, on vacation together,
we misplaced the hotel—at least
for those few panicky minutes
before I remembered
that it was we
who had driven
hundreds of miles.
How long after you are gone
will it take me to learn your absence—
misplacing you here.
Misplacing you there.
And then finally realizing
that what’s been misplaced
is me?