I've watched my door for a week now
Praying for your face in the frame
Or your voice and footfalls approaching
Any hint of a heartbeat

Morbid, I imagine
Seven days of death's dark yield
I brave the mass grave, dreading
Your poor soul among the bodies

I pick through every car crash, the
splintered glass
Expecting your wrist amongst the wreckage
In my growing anxiety I investigate
Every pavement-bound body
And lead-filled lung.

When I try to conceive
Every rope within your reach
And alley eye watching you hungrily
All the knives and fires and viruses
That could have found you by now
Left in a field of poppies
Your blood gone blue

I go blue too

My dear friend could be dead

While I watch the door
Afraid to move