You could pack a bag with all that baggage

You left
All this stuff at my house.

Does it have some significance?
What does a toothbrush mean?
This body scrub looks expensive.
Don’t you care about these socks?
Their mouse faces like distorted grins.

Or is it that you fear that I could
Hold something over you through them?
How can facial wipes remind you of a person?
How can they not?

It’s not that I resent it;
I don’t know how to be angry with you.
But this towel still smells like you,
Your pair of slippers are still lying by the door

And I don’t know what to do.

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Heading Home from Home

As I trudge along to the stop
Suitcase in tow,
The broken wheel scraping the
Icy concrete footpath,

Your almost-incredulous,
Crooked little smile sits
Right in the edge of my vision.
Blurred ever so slightly
Like the webs of ice
On the leaves above my head.

So early, cold and quiet.
Even the birds know better
Than to greet this half morning.
I wish I was in bed
With you
Under four layers of blankets.
Cocooned.
Toes touching….

I pull my hat down tight
And hand the driver my ticket.
11 more hours.

I’m carving a draydel out of cedar for you. All is right with the world.

Sometimes
I would like to live with you
In a wood cabin on a lake.
Lying awake at night
By an open fire
With your hand on my cheek,
In my hair,
On the back of my neck.

A Star of David
Hangs in the window.
A pine wreath on the front door.

The pop and crackle.
Your breath in my ear.
The wind at the chimney.

It wouldn’t be so bad.

A splash of urine on my slipper

More of a dash than a splash
Of hot, pungent urine.
Yellow from an apparent
Lack of hydration. A lack of
Fluids.

And on my slipper of all places!
My old brown vegan slippers.
Yes. Vegan.
Because somebody cared so much
And I, perhaps, too little.

And all of this because I find myself
Distracted by the thought of you.
By the thought of what you would say
If you were here.

Not ‘here’ here mind.
But perhaps in the next room,
Playfully deriding me for my
Inability to close doors,
Lounging on the sofa
Draped in my soft grey blanket.

Maybe,
Pushing your hair back
Over your ear
And looking up

As I enter

The room.

Chet has similar troubles

Mostly I feel
That I don’t know
What I am.

Continually in the
Wrong place
saying the wrong thing
(And rather loudly at that)

But when you
Rested your head on my chest
As we stood before an open window
And gazed out across the skyline
Burning in the dwindling sunlight
I forgot about that

For a while.

I should be changing the sheets

The pillow
Where I have lain my head to rest
Is steeped deeply with you.
Your delicate scent but also
The slow curve of your cheek,
The gentle rise of your breath
And the lashes of your
Half
closed
eyes.

When I close mine I can almost feel
The the groove and judder
Of your spine beneath my fingertips,
Your feet, warm,
in the small of my back,
And the moisture
On your open, waiting lips.

Soon?

While at home,
Yours not mine,
Missiles flare and blank out
Square foot after square foot
Of children, mothers and fathers
Supposedly likewise bent on destruction,

Here you flex and bend
Your head low
Almost to my breaking point.

I can easily overlook death
When you bare your teeth
And curl that tongue.
In this moment
What hold does sorrow have
On me.

But Sorrow,
Sorrow can wait
Leaning against the back wall
Of her Northern Celtic Cave
Eyes cast downwards
The corners of her mouth
Curl slowly into a smile.

‘Soon’