small change

I check our tins and count the
leavings from our holiday,
the leftovers from
the food kitty -

still life: Sunday morning with
cool air, quiet sun, seagulls.
Picture the woman posed
by the open window.

I sleep in the middle
of our bed now and sometimes
catch a nuance of your
aftershave in the bathroom.

The mind plays funny tricks
and hangs in the balance
of imaginings, wishings,
and the steely day.

I consider you:
not far away but
out of reach - I envy
your mate and your friends.

Tin-leavings and leftovers,
time and skin, rubbish, binned -
I am no good at ends.
I finger my small change.
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