Bedside table of a divorcee

Awake now since 3am,

done with tweeting, jerking off

(‘brit bukkake’, ‘gokkun girls’),

and not in the mood to read,

he photographs his bedside

table: notices how light

from his John Lewis lamp gets

consumed by the mango wood;

how shadows cast doubts on two

biographies of Larkin,

one unread; how a half-tugged

tissue, readied for next time,

looks as sheer as the panties

that landed there once, back when

sex, like sleeping, was healthy.