On Your Desk
by Luke Otley
Pan au chocolat half eaten, lone toothpaste without a brush,
peppermint tea atop red wine rings.
Last biscuit in its empty pack, like plastic tulip reaching up,
stiff in the air as a dog’s pink pride.
Folding chair with the back snapped off, wet towel heavy as thing deceased,
lamp crumpled in the washing basket.
Two laptops abreast holding hands, mice work with what room they have,
pizza crust, cough syrup, teacake, paint.
Tobacco in a box of tips, lubricant ordered for kicks,
grinder, cider glass, wallet, skins.
A window behind my back, wall and window behind that,
gull grey cloud, autumnal breezes.
A strip of light hits your face, you snuffle in that normal way,
I write and wait for you to wake,
see your smile, start the day.