6:35 am/pm

You take his coat,
his case.

He gives them up
as he would an argument,

his eyebrows lift a little
at this 1950s TV

husband-and-wife domesticity.
You carry on, take

his tie, his suit jacket,
unbutton his white shirt

cool as plastic
kitchenwrap.

You draw him down
into the contract

the agreement line
of your shared bed.

He rolls over into the shape
of a sub-clause,

dark, tightly typed,
justified to one side.

His desire is less
than his tiredness.

– 44 –

You can wait.
In the morning

he turns, pulls you up
inside his knee tuck.

Against the blue sheet,
you curl close as two speech marks;

where it all starts.