Aluminum Echo

The junk drawer is a graveyard for the small:

a dead battery, a clip, a rusted key.

But then I find the loudest thing of all,

a silver circle that belongs to thee.

The S-hook’s bent, a jagged little wire

that used to jingle on the ceramic rim.

Your name is fading like a dying fire,

the etched-out letters getting soft and dim.

I hold it in my palm and close my fist,

waiting for a bark that’s never going to come.

The house is a list of things I’ve gone and missed,

and the metal in my hand is cold and numb.