In this room where no man has slept for sixty years
since grandfather was banished for snoring,
I exchange embroidered lilac for plain blue.
He chuckles at my spinsterish hot water bottle
companion of an afternoon nap.
Blushing I fling it to the floor.
His slumberous breathing blares like a brass band.
I need deaf silence to sleep.
Arms and legs advance over the mattress
as I lie watching through the curtain’s cleft
for light to agitate the darkness,
cribbed on a ledge of my bed.
If you have any comments on this poem, Fiona Sinclair
would be pleased to hear from you.