Plush Plight

A light layer of dust may coat my eyes,
but I still see you haven’t been here,
and I wonder where you’ve gone.
The dust cakes the crevices
of your wheelchair,
but I’m still soft, you know,
willing to console you
here on the foot of the bed,
my untied sneaker dangling,
my shirt neck stretched.
I see myself in the reflection of your framed football jersey,
a pretend birthday cupcake nestled in my paw,
and I know your birthday has passed –
twice already –
but you haven’t been here.
I’m not surprised, though.
I’ve seen the rest of them come in
to stroke my fur listlessly
and stare –
sometimes even cry –
at the decals of stars and planets
glowing on your ceiling,
and I know you won’t be back here.
I want to tell them I miss you, too –
that our plights are the same –
but my face is forever knitted pleasantly
into a thin smile.