Sometimes when sleep is running late,
I huddle under the duvet,
scratching your name on my palm with
a click-pencil. It’s ‘living art’
I suppose- and it tickles.
Lying there, I wonder if you’d
enjoy glancing up to see
Van Gogh’s 'Sunflowers'- posing for
us on the calendar hanging
from my wall. And maybe you could
smile at my stodgy slippers and
open schoolbag, smeared over the
carpet like fig jam on whole-wheat toast.
Perhaps you’d bring a stereo,
and together we could sing
"Girl from the North Country" with Bob
Dylan and Johnny Cash. Maybe
then we’d sit on the mattress, and
you could see a half-glass of water
become full in the lamplight.
I wonder if you’d like my room-
all those pieces of me, just lying
all over the place. Perhaps if
you did, I’d find a red biro
and sketch your name on my palm again.