sheets revisited

The bed hasn’t been made for days.

There are ways,
I’m told, to shake the torpor from the sheets.
The window’s dew-wet. You’re shut tight with the unsaid.
Books lie open on the desk. The shadow cast
By a sole silhouette’s incomplete.

Against the pillow a corner of toast
Floats like a ghost, a memory of the dead.
Coffee grounds squat in their cups, without
A mouth to smile once they’re cleaned up.
There’s silence, silence at last.

Remember the relief,
When, washed-out with grief, you could sit with a clean sheet
At your desk? Remember the sound of his laugh
The time a full glass of wine stained your dress?
Recall your glance from pillow to page, asking which is best?

Yes, love keeps you warm at night. But work gets you up.
That frown you wear’s what allows you to stare
Down the space in your empty cup.
The cup was full when someone was there
But the page was always blank.

Now the room
Is full. Look! Open books, a bed unmade.
But the odour? Sigh. It’s rank.
Love and work have come and gone
But you’ve got me still. You’ve got me to thank.