A Window

Creased net curtains
with stocking details –

old man’s smoked glass –
a soiled two-way mirror

His fag-stubbed ashtray
brims high with butts

Half-read thrillers
sit sliced by bookmarks

Yesterday’s puzzle –
cold clues unsolved

Ink stains his skin –
a love deeply carved

She remains in him –
his beloved strife

He is now alone –
a Brighton still life

 

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