Six hangers tap each other as the door closes.
It is good to have arrived where blandness can't distract me
From the timely quiet of my senses.
I can sigh, look down at the car park, and
No dormant messages of scorn are strong enough to surface.
Which bed? Shrug. Coffee? Tea? Downstairs for a beer?
The shower hisses at incompetence.
Tick, Tick, Tick. The radiator speaks, but has no alarm
to warn of its power to scorch.
Here there is only the present. My environment has nothing left to say.
And tomorrow's goodbyes will be the offhand tappings of the hangers.