Schroedinger

What am I when she is not here? Who knows?
Like cats tortured by scientists I lie
Defined by what an observation shows
But unobserved. And thus I live and die
At once, forever tangled in myself.
The time may move, the clock may tick along
But it is hidden on the cluttered shelf
And I can only guess the hour wrong
Until she's come again. I cannot tell
The chimes of midnight from the luncheon bell
The Geiger counter from the microwave
The muted TV from the silent grave
Until she can return, and see, and make
The quantum sleeper in my soul awake.