We’ve torn the shrouds of plastic
from the window beside the bed.
I lie still and follow the shadows of birds
across the white glare of the wall outside;
I lie on this bed and hear the kiss of softball to leather
and the gentle coaching of the man next door.
We will leave this place soon, I know that.
Tonight we’ll crate our belongings,
betray our sofa for its weight,
the bed mattress for its lumps.
Will I ever be forgiven my desertion of these
and living things?
Will I ever forgive myself, leaving,
so full of whispered promises
and abandoned starts?
© Barbara Burt