~ Lisa Gordon
Stairs that rise to unused rooms, their amber afternoons:
hours that bear the weight - mahogany as patience -
of a bed made smooth and leather-bound books sequestered
like shoes queuing - the wrong way - to step out;
goods that wait in dressing-table drawers,
pink shimmer lipstick stubs, a sunset blush,
your hair still tangled - fast - in tortoise shell,
a silver compact - of flesh-coloured dust.
Rooms as expectant as looking glass. Even their windows
waiting for you - to step into air and speak.