Enter no man’s land, where worn book marks stop
time dead, and quiet dust suspends thick hours,
stagger to the lip of a quantum drop,
to the stomach punch of funeral flowers.
Fold up clothes, close books, merely pack away
his life through the arc of a crimson sun.
Shawl old fires, wrap up loves that yesterday
were sinuous in a sea breeze. Keep one
eye on the door, and an ear to the wind,
wait, tearfully, for footfall on the stair,
stare unseeing at wreckage left behind,
touch, once, his jumper on the study chair.
When your son enters too, don’t catch his eye
which has caught the universe, sensed the lie.