Across The Divide

My bed is no longer mine. I sleep
across the hall where it is cooler
in the winter and too hot in summer.

My dog is confused and stares at me
when I emerge from the darkness
of the room across the hall. Her eyes

show her sorrow. She is old now
and quite likely to leave us soon,
and for that I grieve more than I do

for the loss of lying down in my blue
room with the red accents and the art
which tells the story of my life. This

night, I want to go in there but can't.
All that kept me there was a matter
of degrees, and I have adjusted now

to the difference, the loss of bedfellow,
the sad look in my sweet red girl's eyes.