I promised

Pick your way
through the copse of second-hand clothes,
gloves and
camisoles like fallen leaves.
Undone laces
shrew away like
mouse tails,
burying themselves.
Cleave apart the trunks
of butter-soft leather,
fifteen suitcases or more
displaying some chaos.
Half-read books are teepee tents
fanned out and face-down,
spines bared
to a vulnerable sky
of scarf-swathed lamplights
and dusted bulbs.
I am not here,
my breadcrumb trail
of notebook leaves
and ticket stubs
makes barest clues
so sit awhile
on silken sheets of greenest moss.
Coat-hanger branches
muddle and knot,
bend the metal
to find your way back.
The half-drawn blind
suggests a sunset
and I promised you I would be home.
A clock lies on its side,
time stood still,
and you hold it in your hand
and you wait for me
and you wait for morning,
because I promised you I would be home.