Oct 19 2005


Published by at 4:42 am under Poetry

by Sander Roscoe Wolff ©

He sits on her bed, the one where he held her,
And thinks of the emptiness left in the sheets…
Subtle impressions that linger there still,
Cold now.

The pillow shows traces of sleepy caresses,
Errant hairs cling to flannel and cotton,
Forgotten that morning in haste for the door,
Closed now.

Books line the shelves on the desk and the dresser
Lined up like soldiers awaiting command.
Standing in front of them, many framed pictures,
Old now.

Photos of sister and brother and mother
Moments with lovers who left her to die.
Crying, he wonders why his face is absent,
Gone now.

Suddenly laughing, he stares in the mirror,
Seeing the vanity barely contained…
Framed for a moment within his reflection,
Clear now.

Standing, he straightens the sheets where he rested
Smoothing the soft cotton sheets with his fingers
Lingering one final moment, then leaving,
Gone now.

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