A Room That Isn't (Downstairs).

A Room That Isn't (Downstairs).

Five of seven nights since her haughty, rehearsed sneer:

regrettable vignettes intrude well-earned respite;

spoofing banalities that need no parody

even as a new woman feigns sleep in my bed.

Three floors down in an astral amalgamate space:

reconciliation and reigning in. Once again,

hastily forsaking what’s had for what has gone.

Through a slitted eyelid, I see she finds her clothes,

and seeks an assuring and dignified good bye

with pursed lips, I less than respectfully decline.