It changes once he sleeps there.
It remains the same, but it looks and
sounds different.
He hears the traffic from the bypass, the
boiler at work, the step of someone on the stairs.
A door slams shut.
The sofa becomes a bed, the lamp a bedside
light.
A plant keeps him company.
He reads.
Then he dozes.
And he sleeps.
It changes once he sleeps there, in the daughter’s bed.
He holds his breath less he disturbs the
silence.
Everyone is waiting.
No one is breathing.
They are all thinking, distant in their separate thoughts, together in the silence and space that hold them.
He dare not turn less it breaks the spell.
He sleeps.
He wakes.
Outside snow settles.
Nothing will ever be the same.
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