Direction.

In bed
with my possessions,
the light switch doesn’t work.

The duvet
is irreversibly tangled,
the sheet screwed up too.

The company
isn’t exactly,
a sleeping stranger.

The rain
would be timeless,
if it weren’t hitting plastic.

The knock
makes me start,
but I only roll over.

The cleaner
peers into the half-light:
‘vous partez quand?’