He'd stayed over once or twice,
though, "I need my space," he'd said.
Then one morning, gathering
his scattered clothes from round my bed,
"I'll leave this here," he said, and slung
his light blue shirt across my chair,
"to save me carting stuff around
next time I stay." and left it there.
I washed it clean and hung it dry.
I ironed it with immoderate care.
I bore it to my wardrobe rail,
and, with reverence, hung it there.
Funny how that shirt should seem,
hanging there among my dresses,
more intimate, more promising
than all the previous night's excesses.
If you've any comments on this poem, Sarah Willans would be pleased to hear from you.