You’re dressing-gowned. Fussing with egg
and cup. Three strides, and I will be beyond
the window that frames you, to the next,
where a man sits, turning a newspaper’s
wings. The heating’s on, boiler vent
belching its clouds against red brick.
All I’ve done is walk my dog past your
creeper-clad, single-storey home for years,
learned laden sills as if they were my own:
pestle & mortar’s marble bulge, child’s pottery
with brown glaze, Baby Bio and limp succulent.
Which of you chose the feather, two-tone flag
poking from the mug of pens? I’ve paused
at the handwritten invitation in the drive, bent
for boxed windfalls, slim sticks of rhubarb.
Women sharing things, between kitchens.
I’ve seen him haul his bike from the garage,
greet other helmeted men. What do I understand
of your shared rooms? My dog sniffs at your
borders. I’m prying into the rest of my life.

 

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From Magma 95, Architecture

 

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