disjecta

The Bear
Stuffed into its corner not
even on the mattress by
the frame of the bed
slumped over a tissue box.
With crosses for eyes
and a half smile
(the other half a loose thread)
a gaping hole
opens at the scruff of its neck.

How did you get yourself
into such a spot, I ask.

No answer. Silence.
It does not move, does not stir,
still slumped over the tissue box.

You have been neglected,
haven’t you, I say.

Again, nothing.
It continues, even persists,
in remaining where it is,
in remaining silent.