The door of the long-distance bus
Closes.
The engine growls,
And light licks the street.
Then it's gone.

I walk by the gutter
Under the nailhead stars.
The key finds the door.
The ashes of last year's wind
Stir in the dead grate.

In my room,
Mildew has disinherited sweat.
I fumble for the light.
My Lady of the Staple
Stares from the wall,
Perfect but unlovely.
I take a chair, and try to believe
The hours will revive
That myth called morning.

A "grate". Part of a fireplace.