In the hallway,
your straw hat hangs
from a hook,
waiting
for the morning walk.

In the kitchen,
the chipped mug,
tea-stained.
The inseparable
salt and pepper,
our tablecloth edged
in sepia lace.

In the bathroom,
pill bottles form ranks
like little tin soldiers.
Two towels— one damp,
the other dry.
Our Boston fern is thirsty;
the tub needs scrubbing.

In the paper,
headlines shout—
pandemic vs. politics—
but no amount of spin or slant
can scrub away the truth.
I’m not the only one who thirsts
for what should be but isn’t.

In the bedroom,
a half-read book lingers
on the nightstand.
The hamper brims,
NPR softly drones.
I reach for your robe
and put it on.

©  

Ann Weil has been writing and publishing poetry for over a year, following a career in K-12 and academia. Her latest poetry can be read or is forthcoming in Third Wednesday, Clementine Unbound, The Healing Muse, Halfway Down the Stairs, and Thimble Literary Magazine.