A tumble in the morning
invited sepia to the bedroom,
with her hair tangled,
like her breathing,
around my ear.
Dual feelings wrought a smile,
a recipe itself of contentedness
and emptiness
- Sunday,
a metaphorical soap bubble.
We untangled and dabbed
wet cotton to our soaped skins,
replacing odours,
and as midday arrived,
roasting pork wafted in waves upstairs.
Lunch was followed by football,
the third round
as delectable as the meal.
The FA Cup.
Villa and United.
This soap bubble day,
in ascension,
could not burst and fill
with the sour air.
A perfect un-poppable sphere.
At some point, night fell,
as day was felled,
and the bubble turned invisible,
as last it floated
above Monday on the calendar.
No comments:
Post a Comment