The sweater

And when the telephone began to ring
No one was home to answer my call.
The kitchen was empty and down the back hall
The bedroom was perfumed in shades of cool pink.
In the bathroom a brown wig dried in the sink.
A weeks' worth of papers by the studio door,
Each in a wrapper dropped on the floor.
Ends and odds and cigarette butts
Turned and tossed by an obvious klutz;
A note from the laundress pinned on one shirt,
Bloodied it hung from where it would hurt.
Upstairs for ten minutes and no one could speak;
I once sat there dreaming and stayed for a week.
Breaking a fast in my mind with a start:
I wore a frayed sweater with a thread for a heart.