The Bed Room

the bed room
in pre-light:
feet stumble and scuff,
a muffled pummelling drums my ears.

I brush a flattened palm
across the remembered warmth
of a vacated, tousled sheet,
slow-sweeping heat there,
stoking desire to half-sleep,
and I
watch your bum tumble,
into up-pulled breeks,
as you
haul a body tiredly
shelving dreams
for sweat,
and before the day-thoughts click
you are,
somehow, in the hall,
then the bathroom
and it’s a pee or a running tap.
The ghosts of work haunt our mornings,
sleeper and gone.


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