a worn heel to remember him by

my boot heel grinds the same corner
 of the cement step... both the step
 and the heel showing the age of my
 depression which often seats me
 out of the home, glass in hand.
the ice cubes are my only connection
 to this world... for i cannot hear
 the wind, nor rain, nor neighbors'
 whispers.
i certainly do not hear her inside,
 angrily creating noise... perhaps
 that she may wake me, as one
 would a child who's passed away
 during the night.