The W SoundEver since you walked away,The W Sound3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Wednesdays have smelled of hypothermia.
The weeks sag in the middle like the old
Couch with its drone-worn upholstery.
The wicker chair wallows in your corner,
While your wellington boots catch
The drip drip of withered shingle
Where you left them, there, that day.
The window sweeps night in
Whitewashed, without you here;
W’s no longer wean your whispers
To swish into my ear.