Empty White

With body under cuffs

from days of unrest

and mind poisonously stale

from guilty nights spent

away from my wooden,

I bend over sheets,

for time – the wanted,

the suspect, the robber –

is caught in my grip.

 

I look for light

for my mind wants to fly,

but in the night that sits

I only see empty white.

Parker point scratches

while my eyes stare walls.

I look down for words,

but what I see

my baby could have done.

 

Another wrinkled ball

joins that hateful bin.

My wife’s aroma kindles

the cement doorstep outside.

Surprise rents her face, for

with paper and pen I sit.

‘A story? A poem?’ escapes,

but not from my mind.

A weak smile. She gets it.

 

Four little paws crawl

eagerly to my wife. She,

brightening, picks the doll.

Sounds she makes, names

she calls. More Joy is the reply.

When their eyes meet,

I know something happens.

But what it is, neither says.

Evening. Flowers. Music.

 

Freshened from their sight

I begin again. Words seep:

‘With body under cuffs…’

A tumbler of coffee sits by.

Purity lies on love’s lap.

As two eyes close in peace,

the lullaby carefully shrinks.

Our eyes meet. I know this.

Night.Mattress. Silence.

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