Their love ran out in March; their lease, in June.
He moved where cash allowed, took the room strewn
With near-junk unseen since their wedding day.
Home, then, was like a drawer where one might lock
Loose pieces of a fallen antique clock.
She lived in bed, ate oatmeal from a tray,
Read comics like a child bored with a cold.
He searched the bars for something nice to hold.
Then, drunk, he'd close his eyes and trace the day,
The day's soft flicker, down to a shrinking dot,
As though a ship were burning, far away.
She saw his razor on the sink, the cot
Folded, the room he slept in not at all,
Where once she'd wrapped him, waiting, in a shawl
And, warmed at last, he could pretend to wake.
He waited now, unseen, for no one's sake.