My left AirPod lives
in the Super Sargasso Sea,
the place where all lost things go,
and occasionally return from,
but really rather rarely,
so I might as well quit looking.
I fall asleep to the sound
of people’s voices,
telling other people’s stories,
to quiet the racing mind
that is desperate
to tell my own.
In dreams, I thrash and fight,
cajole and argue,
demand my dignity
and her attention:
How dare you,
how dare you,
how dare you?
And in the morning light,
my left AirPod
lies alone and quiet
on the 71 year old floors,
waiting to be swatted and batted
across them
by a black and white cat named Domino.
When I am 71 years old,
will I have wrung out
my stories enough
to fall asleep to just the sound
of my husband breathing?
Will I have spoken my words
with eyes wide open,
in enough of the right rooms,
enough to let my family
sleep in peace?
Will my soul purr with contentment,
sand between my toes,
as the waves of the Super Sargasso Sea
wash away my regrets?