Tuning Out

I tried to tell the one about the bar

to the new guy at work while we stood in the hall.

I had the timing right, but I went too far

and hit a quiet, white-painted wall.

I couldn't find the way you used to drag your 'r',

a low, gravelly hum that lived in your throat.

Now you’re a frequency drifting out past a star,

or a misremembered line in a very old note.

The refrigerator kicks on, filling the room

with a mechanical buzz that is steady and flat.

I’m standing in the kitchen in the afternoon gloom,

trying to remember where your laughter sat.