all over town the yellow mouths of bedrooms yawn and close on lovers, two by two

I latch the storm door, shunt the cat 

down cellar, set the thermostat 

 

and climb twelve steps to go to bed 

myself, myself. I fold the spread. 

 

The sheets are crisp. All over town 

the yellow mouths of bedrooms yawn 

 

and close on lovers, two by two. 

I stuff the noisy door, undo 

 

my buttons, hooks and eyes and stand 

back from the mirror. Under hands 

 

that mapped my senses softly as sheep 

touch in the fold and turn in sleep 

 

my body turned in appetite. 

My jailbird body, long and light, 

 

unfingermarked, unvisited, 

grows stupid in the tidy bed. 

 

Now as I turn the clock face down 

midnight strikes all over town. 

 

[Maxine Kumin {1925-2014} 'The Widow', from Our Ground Time Here will be Brief]