Monday, December 22, 2014

Offered, not taken

clean sheets
the cozy glow of an old lamp
a pink folded washcloth.
my pillow offered,
not taken.
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.

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