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

without you




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