Looking through the window with the lights on. Standing on the street, it is dark.
Silent in the yellow room.
I see a piece of cake, half- eaten.
Looking through the window with the lights on. How is he doing I wonder.
Only the bottles I see.
Grey hair is silvering underneath the dim light.
Standing on the street, scent of soap from somewhere. Following the trace, I find the curtains closed. Nothing to be seen.
But only the doormat may say welcome.
