The treadmill cicada whine
Blends with the television.
I feel her presence
As if she is gently tapping my back
Periodically. The way she might have
Come up behind me at my locker
Thirty-three years ago. It’s substantial,
Solid, like a good hard mahogany table.
If we had not married, would I feel the same
About the cicada sound?
She’s stopped walking now, and gone upstairs
And I miss the cicada sound.
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