I open the door and see them,
dull, dejected, disappointed they lie
trousers and shirts together,
intertwined, akin to their fate
Maybe they too long to see their loved ones,
that so beautifully rest back home,
caressed , folded, stacked with pent up affection,
smelling like fabric conditioner and me.
I wonder how they feel, maybe not as cold.
Lucky indeed they are, to be warm.
It's winter back home too but I am sure,
that at least once a day she opens the door,
before work , to their delight,in search of something,
which is perhaps there or maybe not, and closes it.
I pick up my jacket, unfortunately my only source of warmth,
close this door, open another and walk out,
under a cold, unlit and harmless sun.