The Bedsheet

He spends his days there

Standing in the balcony

With his crutch,

Watching the busy street down,

Watching people with legs

Getting busy with their life,

While she sleeps inside

All day

On the dirty bed,

The bed sheet never washed

Or changed in last few months,

‘Cause she works all night.

And it hurts him. So,

Every evening,

When the street lights up in bright colors,

And birds and people come back home,

He seeks oblivion

In a bottle of cheap whisky

Before the big men in big cars come

To take her,

Dressed in bright colors, with them.

Bright colors, you see, hurt his eyes.

And she comes back

Late at night, and

Sometimes in the morning

And sometimes even later

When he has regained consciousness

And stands there

In the balcony with his crutch.

And it hurts her.

Nobody ever says anything.

And he thinks he should die

And she thinks if she died,

He would starve to death.

And the dirty bed,

With the dirty bed sheet,

Which was never washed or changed

In the last few months,

Which has never witnessed

The two of them making love,

But which has heard his

Alcohol driven confessions

And has seen her tears,

Knows

How madly they love each other.