Apple crumbled evenings in October,
your guitar and two chords drifting through the piles of paper at your feet.
I am closing my eyes to the sound and
the green curtain and the old fashioned way
you boil a kettle and make sure that
I am more than ‘ok’.
We talk without pause, although
Louis Theroux , the news at seven, nine, eleven,
Nigella’s pornographic recipes, Ikea catalogues
and The Yellow Pages, are all consuming subject matters.
You bring me my name on a Sainsbury’s leaflet;
I am to be had with duck legs, indeed!
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