A Change in the Winds

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