For Felix, Wherever You Are Poem by Charles Malcolm

People don't leave
or go missing.

They were never even here.

You can stamp your feet
on concrete and wooden planks.
Slam your fists
against drywall and brick.

But that's not you
and it doesn't prove that you were ever here.

We're all somewhere
in that hollow echo
and the dried blood.

A black and white photograph
taped to the door of an adult bookstore
that's already closed.

Waiting for someone to find us.