This space

With its mattress, undressed

Its unadorned island,

Smells like lonesome.

And when I sit, unaccompanied

(Which may be endless),

My windows drawn

Their bars together like finally

Got him on lock,

Shackled up I get down.

And weary and all of the blue-tint

Feelings well up under this

Rug I don’t call home.

This bed bears my shape,

On its old back

To the wall, feet to the floor

And its pillowcase carries my color

On its palms.

But still it isn’t mine,

And probably never will be.