Days With No Hope In Them

the mailman came during my bath

There are days with no hope in them.
The sun sits beyond the treeshade
beyond the window,
the cars hum beyond the grass
beyond the outer wall,
there are feet somewhere scrambling
through leaves and gravel,
but you are far away.

I spiral through the hall,
along the stairs.
I sit at the foot of the bed
and pull on socks,
as though I might go somewhere.
I feed the cats bits of cheese
and run a bath
so I can hear the water
whistle far through pipes
down the line.