The kitchen table’s nice and neat.

No tea stains, ash or traces.

No paper strewn.

The bed is huge.

My legs have room to stretch.

 

The dishes few, the bathroom clean,

no hair or splash or mess.

No rhapsody or midnight kiss.

The nights are wiped of snore and twitch

but I can’t sleep

and all I feel is mirrored in the order:

 

spick-and-span

and cleft and pang

bereft and bare and lacking.

 

You’re back tonight

to wreck this well-kept

apple-pie immaculate.

I await your disarray

with hunger and impatience.