Walking through the house

Turning ornaments this way and that

Like that woman in the film we saw once.

I know how you like everything to be just so.

I straighten fabrics and curtains

Blindly stroking the fabrics

And letting our memories spread upwards through my fingertips.

I pick at real or imagined dust

Just so I am kept busy.

Until five past six when all the rituals are complete

And I can break down and sob in your chair

Rumpling the cushions and coverings

Because you won't walk in.

You won't set your briefcase down in its niche

Or slide your coat into the cupboard under the stairs.

But for some stupid, illogical reason, tomorrow I will wait

Undoing all the crumples and creases of my crying

Until you don't come home again.