The paper, and the wood-ledge, chipped’s
wet-sodden with the old mixture
and no dusty thing remains
on the wrong side of the room.
Checked the lamp for plastered flies
I prise the glow stick from its place
still dull, not lit and un-resurrected
a testament to the thousand
gassed night-flies on the ground.
And down the hallway’s crusts, or carpet,
the much-loved sick-stain ritual encumbrance
I find myself willing some happy greeting,
a swivel of seat,
no naked dwelling.
Paused short in my fancy,
I realise it’s freezing,
turn the tap for a tea, fill the kettle
(it takes twice the time for the half cup that’s needed).
This room’s just a half-room