Happened to be passing
The front door gives and I’m treading the stairs
unswept still and cushion soft,
up to the bare-board landing
where damp re-infects my throat,
where I pause and look back down
to the dents of bikes in the plaster,
last year’s mail on the floor
and the talk we couldn’t round off,
look back down to you,
no longer known
at this address.
Grey Sparrow Journal 