By Susan Miller

These were the things he missed,
the ones that were suppose
to stay silent, shoved down deep.
What with all the carnage spilling
all over his morning paper for
weeks, then months, a year.
The little things. The ones that
filled empty spaces, connected
his dots, fueled his day.

The gurgle of his grandson,
a sniff of her lavender shampoo.
Beer with his poker buddies,
sticky doughnuts after Mass.
The kind library lady, the 
sidewalk smiles of strangers.
Her crimson lips, the way
she asked him to dance.

Her touch. Any touch.

---

Susan Miller is an editor/reporter for USA TODAY newspaper who enjoys creative writing as a hobby. Her poetry has appeared in several publications, including Whimsical Poet, The Dillydoun Review, Gemini Magazine, Common Ground Review, Months to Years, Under the Bridges of America, Sandy Paws and the Arlington Anthology. She had a short story published in Beach Life.