a fortieth poem...'night before'

Woke feeling low,

Forced myself

To get out of bed,

Banged my head

On the low-hanging

Light bulb.

Nursing my head

I walked the short distance

To the window,

Brushed the dust off the sill,

And sat there,

Numb all over -

Except for my head.

Sure enough

The rain was coming down

In great blotches,

Spattering on the empty street

Below my dusty windowsill;

The sky above

Mordant, ash grey,

And behind me,

My box-bedroom,

The open fire

Where the embers lay

That kindled hope,

Of a kind,

The night before

She left

At four, was it five?

Have died.