the room

on a drenched winter afternoon
of shrivelled peacock calls
an old room of a well lived house
unleashed from rusted locks  
opened its creaky doors  
after tireless ages of silent imprisonment.
there was never a sigh.
or an utterable word.
the cleaning lady  
changed the sheets  
and in one swoop  
of her expert broom  
consigned its dusty history  
to a rancourless bin.  
but for the odour  
of loneliness  
that i knew only too well  
from the years of our love  
there was nothing
to betray (even by accident)
the story of unadorned walls 
and expired night creams.