The ironing board Is out beside my bed. Flat, Cloud diluted light creates Shadows on angles, greys Cutting across yellowing white. Paintings hang just off centre, rogue Marks, where hammers Failed to hit the nail On the head. Cotton Sheets, crinkled from nights Of restless use. Laying in the centre, hearing Rain patter against the window Pane, cars displacing puddled Water, engines throwing Dust into the morning light. White towels hang, surrendered To the hook on the back Of the door. Closed to the world I lay and hope that nobody Knows I'm here. The clock on the side table Ran out of batteries months ago, Time has stopped, this room A capsule of nothing in Particular.