Ninety-seven. A true story that doesn't make for a very good poem.

I was too ill to go to into work
today. In the afternoon,
I drank a cup of coffee and painted
my eyelids cat-black,
and went to buy a new set
of sheets. Funny, how anxious
I made myself worrying
that I would see you in Central,
then at Park, then at the very end
of the green line, and then on the 87 home.
You were not there, of course.
I imagine you were in your fancy
downtown high rise, making charts
or preparing some sort of report or
presentation. I bet your hair was neat
and you looked very serious.
Maybe in your navy dress shirt.
Anyway, I made it home
without occurrence, and moved my bed
to the opposite side of the room,
a side you haven't slept on,
and found a pair of your pants
(brown corduroy), that were somehow left behind
when I gave you back your things.
I threw them away
and the sheets you haven't touched
are holding the mattress in place.