the cozy glow of an old lamp
a pink folded washcloth.
my pillow offered,
I would wish she was there
with her feet sticking out past the
white rails, but the sheets will remain
clean, a sterile smell instead of
that of her, the one whose scent was
intermingled with mine, who was
once one with me.
time has passed, and unslept beds
must be carried along with
the lunchboxes in the basement gathering
dust, the small dresses we save for grandchildren,
the books which floated away in the flood.