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The Living Room
The shades are drawn
against the afternoon's bright.
Light can be so confusing;
so seeking darkness, palely
rising, she ignores the call
of the telephone; too much
time on her hands, too
much to lose in the daily
rituals of filling such vacancies
as these. Her fingers
trace the walls, making
whisperings of their own
that call to where all those
other lives have gone: nowhere.
They are here now. A life so crowded. So alone.
At the master bedroom door
she lingers. The bed.
The mirror. The cupboard.
The pictures on the wall.
The light, questing cracks,
slips through the blinds
illuminating only the quiet
impossibility of it all.
A meagre breeze ruffles
the curtains; she turns
and her whispering fingers
retrace her shuffling steps
to the living room,
where the shades are drawn.
Half light. Half dark. A memory. She should check.
Just once more.
