No Donovan.
Miss O’Toole moves in her
Broad bed. She scratches
Her behind to relieve an itch.
Tries to harness her dreams
But they run off like hound
Dogs into the fields of sleep.
She feels for Donovan. Her
Fingers move along the sheet.
Sunlight eases itself beneath
The lowered blind. She screws
Up her nose. Scratches the bridge.
Mouths words. Dreams scatter.
The alarm clock rings. Dances
Along the bedside top. She opens
Her eyes and captures the leaking
Inward light. Her fingers find no
Donovan. He has fled with dawn’s
Bright touch. She knows she loves
Him more than he loves her. He loves
Her body and that alone as such.
poem by Terry Collett
Added by Poetry Lover
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