The Sublet

The quilt is polyester, thin and blue.

The morning light is coming through

the gap in the drapes where the city is gray.

I do not know the name of the street or the day.

I look in the glass of the window-pane.

I see my father's jaw, the same

heavy line and the tired, deep eyes.

It is a face I wear as a kind of disguise.

These legs are too long for the edge of the bed.

There is a rhythmic ache in the back of my head.

I get up and leave a deep dent in the fluff.

I am staying here, but I am not enough.