feathers in the book pages
like faded print flies away...
morning stifled by dusty curtains
why is the bedroom so cold?
awaited phone calls muffled by
the last tone of a flatline
and the monitor fades black and we
are leftholding on to nothing butcolorless photographs
takenfrom their gaudy silver frame
son the dresser.
the fire has died and all
i can hear is a
clock chime,
four,
five.
i used to be in this very room
when it was alive
and i was a child.
when the armchair was occupied
and now the fire has died
and the only one in the armchair
is that old tattered afghan
his wife knitted


eighteen years ago.