You lie there, in your bed in the darkened room, aghast
- at what you've done to yourself. No sympathy for her,
- the woman who has tended you, a cipher. The range around
- you is barren but for the covers soft against your face.
- Eyes shut dry weeping for the boy you were. The range is
barren. You cannot cross it. You cannot let the ribbon edge escape
- your cheek. You cannot draw the blankets back and thrust
- your legs out to the cold and go and tell her you're sorry.
- The range is barren. Old is not what you thought it would
be: smiling,
- sitting in the sun. Old cloaked in well-washed woolens rubs
satin
- against your mouth to tame the keen for pardon.
-
- Perhaps she will come in again, reenter the darkened
- room and ask if you want tea. Then, if she opens
- the door, you can confess you miss her hand against
- your brow checking in.
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