High on the scent of bindings, I open first editions,
leaves, more leaves. The front room is a dell of books
pushed to the ceiling, mist clinging to their spines,
the letters cut with dust.
Oh, every move is idle
waiting for Michael
in a house without a phone.
Down the passage there’s a hotel wardrobe of a fridge,
forlorn. Two beers drunk, we dine on peanut-buttered toast.
You mouth a love song. Kiss. Natural
conclusion to a day spent on the window seat,
you on guitar, your eye on me
but I am waiting up for Michael.
Revealed by parting clouds, the moon snows down
on my bare legs. I say I think I’ll go to bed. I don’t intend to
sleep with you. I make a nest of cushions
on the playroom floor and though you inch inside
to make yourself at home, it’s him
I’m waiting for
all night and wide awake. Often in an unfamiliar house I do.