A plastic tulip in a vase—it’s red
like lipstick on your glass, the shoes you wore
when late for work—and bread crumbs on the floor:
the neighbour’s tabby bristles to be fed.
My black suit has been washed and pressed, a thread
hangs from its sleeve: the funeral’s at four;
last time we both forgot to lock the door.
Your garden pansies droop, a mouse lies dead
on our rattan bench. I dress, the dim
bulb in the room like walnut-coffin sky.
A button rolls away; I clutch the air.
The porch is bathed in sun, unlikely hymn
for cancelled spring. The floorboards creak on my
way out. Too tight, I feel old fabric tear.