I catch pieces of him.
Fragments of wood,
protruding from the walls in Victorian houses
I haven't sanded down yet.
Splinters I wasn't looking for
but neared by chance.
Brushing up against the paneling,
a run in pantyhose.
Blindly grasping for
the source, the root, the scrape.
The element I think I've identified
until I look closer; hope like fire -
doused by water.
For it's not his smile,
caught up in that Polaroid shot.
Not his laugh, recorded on a
Hallmark video tape.
I shut the filing cabinet,
and lose the drawer key
in a pile of others.
His is a cold case.