The same shadows steal
across threadbare carpets
beneath a forty watt lampshade
leaking plaster peels, dim light.
Jar of Piccalilli spooned at odd times,
night and day. Appetite has moved away.
Six thirty, place laid for no one, no one stays.
plate cracked and dirty,
pork pie pieces forgotten, furry.
Tick of a clock blurs behind hours of glass,
old transparencies, photo's sepia tint,
glazes near fire.
Epilogue, dead of night.
Tuneless barking of left out dog
and now all the time you need
to spend with no one.