I sit
in a winter kitchen, stiff
and girlish, slurping steamy clots
of hot gravy. The wet mush
of my sister’s chew.

I am waiting
for you. You, rain-blistered,
with a newspaper tucked in your armpit,
carton of milk in your fist.
Pennies dazzling your pockets.
You, calm.
The engine killed on the drive.
Perhaps I am waiting
for the beery breeze of your shirt
zigzagged in all the wrong buttonholes,
the wonky smile
which makes you a stranger
in the wet window,
the dog circle you like a moon.

We are waiting,
pecking peas from our forks,
your gravied plate clamming
like an hour-old wound,
what could have been
so unbearable homely
it had you tumbling out
under streetlamps, flailing
like an ancient baby
with even the dog crying behind you,
licking grimly at your fork.



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2 responses to “Sunday

  1. Pingback: Homecoming | Goodnight Indigo

  2. Powerful work, much admired.

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