Poem

I bury my nose in your scarf
where it hangs on the back of the door.

You're not dead, no.
You're standing right behind me

with that look on your face:
terminally unimpressed,

arms folded,
cigarette askew.

I want to say, 'Look outside,
everything's new.' But

you wouldn't turn your head
if I was on fire.

I know.
There's more to you than hair

and huge books.
Think about it.