The mattress has moulded

The mattress has moulded

Into the contours

Of your body

A sweat-stained

Feathered compact

Recognising only one shape.

You are a prisoner

Until you die

Or wake up

Whichever comes sooner

The cupboards are empty

The walls are bare

But for uniquely designed

Webs

Spinning Jenny’s

Or Charlette’s

If she wants to claim them

As home.

A coffee stain

Is less attractive

From the floor

Pictures lie face down

Mirrors face the wall.

There is nothing to see here

The scrape of a knife across the skin

Blood is mostly water

It boils more easily.

The roll of a glass across the parquet

The role of whisky

In a kitchen sink drama

As the curtains fall

Against the sun.

Only male whales sing

Nobody knows why

And it is okay to be lonely

Sometimes.