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?’
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