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.