The one in the first box is
Perched on the wipeable faux
Leather stool, tweeting boredom.
In the next box the stool’s empty.
At the back we can all see his tartan scarf and thick grey coat against her thin
Radiator.
He looks up, relieved
That she’s drawing
The curtain.
The year is in its adolescence
It is trying its body on for size
But not yet used to its long legs
And sex and looks
Awkward when it walks and feels
Awkward when the full formed daffodils
Suggest a cheeky bit of summer before dinner
; – )
There is hope, there is memory
But there is no knowing what will be
Beyond this time of promise, heavy with buds that
May or may not
Bear fruit, depending on whether
Frost sweeps Autumn’s sweets or thunder
Brightens all souls to glinting parodies of Paradise
: – )
She meets him every day at 8,
An hour of illicit company
Over pain aux raisins
This one is pounds heavier
Balder, better at looking her
In the eyes,
They get the chance, before 9
Strikes their lives dumb,
To another day
In the city and another night
Waiting for the time
Between 8 and 9
When he can see her
And she can see him who
Is not hers.
Being Every Day 