Adam Rock
The Cup On The Carpet
Every time I leave
I look back
To see myself
In the tidy sprawl
Across the room
Of that brief morning
And the night before.
The cup on the carpet,
Half opened curtains,
Dirty plates wiped clean,
A book unopened,
Yesterday’s trousers straggling.
And then I turn again,
Twist the key in the lock,
Smack palm against door,
Think of that look.
Was it my last?
If, cold and shut, this lair
Will wait for days,
Until a stranger and his tool
Arrive to squeeze the wood ajar,
View the bare bones of that morning
Mixed with the night before.
And more.
The unflushed loo half-filled with piss,
A stack of dishes in the sink,
Old sheets unwashed.
Sure signs of who I really was.
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