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.
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