Shut the door: no point
in
wasting heat – but if you wish
leave
it ajar just in case.
He
may return, of course.
We
understand.
The
bed's made
window
clean, blind drawn
lamp
on desk,
asleep
for months. Be a dear;
check
that it works.
You
can see he's been.
That’s
his chair.
His
clarinet in its small case
needs
new reeds –
his
books.
Unfashionable
coats
in
a dark cupboard
bow
emptily like ghosts
to
faded jeans.
On
the wall, prints of bands
and
heroes past,
spent
calendars,
old
shoes under the bed
where
the cat
now
sleeps.
The
economy, failed relationships,
wanting
to save, war’s end:
any
of these may bring him back.
The
battery in the clock is dead.
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