On Sunday Night

On Sunday night we howl
“I just wanna make love to you”
into broom and mop handles.

And whirling around our cluttered
kitchen, we stamp our feet on
discarded shards of potato peelings.

Then breathless we sit down to eat.
We wonder at the scandals that have
slipped in through the bricks.
We unpick each others prettiness
and set the straight things
crooked bit by bit.

Then we sit back, fat with
food and chatter. Never more
relaxed than now.

Then a soft knock is planted on the
distant front door.
It’s the two little boys who
live over the road.
They’re maybe six, or seven,
maybe eight years old.

They present us with a rose each;
pungent and illicitly plucked from
a nicer, brighter street.

We look at each other and blush,
as pink as the flowers,
we are suddenly and
stupidly touched.

Jemima Foxtrot