by Ion Corcos

You stand at the bedside, look out
the window; light gilds the room.
You still wear your apron;
no one will come to see you today.
You keep your house tidy, straight
like the two paintings on your wall.
The sky is clear this morning
and you can hear a plane fly across.
A paperboy sits on the corner
across the road.
Your shirt is crisp and ironed.
There is a lot of talk on the wireless,
of the end of the war,
and of the soldiers coming home.
You turn the radio off,
hold your hands tight
in front of you, like in prayer.
You don’t feel the light on you,
the warmth of the sun
coming through the glass.
It is bright, but you don’t trust
that it will stay like this. Too many words
have passed,
too much life has been lost
already. It is better for you inside,
even if no one is with you.

 

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