At Nine, the Lift

I put your coffee mug away in June,

And told myself the shelf looked better bare;

Now every morning, reaching for a spoon,

I find a little absence waiting there.

The sweetshop at the corner closes late,

They still arrange the toffees by the till;

I turn to share a joke with you, then wait,

As though you might be walking with me still.

I've learned to eat alone and call it fine,

To spread the sheets and lock the front door tight;

But still my body checks the time at nine,

As if I'd hear your key against the night.

The lift comes up. I hear the metal ring,

I keep on washing dishes anyway;

I never thought I'd miss so small a thing

As hearing you complain about your day.