In my old age,

my parents have decided

to give me space:

a room of my own

complete with a bed

and a view of the

woods beside our house.

As the body grows older

it grows inflexible, it seems

either that

or my bed is too hard

I can’t sleep nights.

My muscles involuntarily

curve to an imaginary space

you occupied

lifetimes ago.

I feel the strain of living

whenever my cheek touches

bedsheets, made rough-smooth

by the spin-dry cycle of

the washing-machine downstairs.

I open my windows

to the elements.

I laugh at the face

of cyclones.

There is no reason

to stay.

Why will I

miss this place?

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THE LAB 7TH EDITION. Summer 2011, Cultural Arts & Theatre Society

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Copyright ©: 


2011


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