While I watch the falling leaves,
hypnotised,
you make a Nespresso.
Opening each new sleeve
feels like a gift, you tell me
— like unwrapping a box of cigarettes.
The coloured cartridges are so Christmassy,
you could tassel them on a tree.
The coffee never tastes like much,
but you get used to coffee that tastes like tea.
The low hum of the espresso machine
is hypnotising;
so too, the soothing cadence
of the news on TV
— that once would have played
on the kitchen radio
when I could still snake a figure-eight
between Mum and Dad’s knees.
But now it’s just you and me,
waltzing in the shelter of
our routine.
Driving through the rain to work,
the car still smells fresh from two days ago,
when we went for our Saturday morning excursion:
a car wash and eggs Benedict.
Saturday used to carry the promise
of eternity for me,
playing Space Invaders all day
at the back of a dingy café.
Worst was trundling up the contour path
to the reservoirs on top of Table Mountain,
rucksacks stuffed with ham sandwiches
and zoo biscuits, and Mum plying us
with a thermos of hot milky tea.
As thunder grumbled down the cliffs
and up the galleries, we’d complain
about missing this or that on TV—
while I dreamed of getting home
to my shiny red cricket ball,
whose crisp white seam
would saw through the air like a bumblebee.
At work, it is a marvel to watch
how my hands do their own bidding,
while I wander lost in the snowdrift
outside the window
— feeling its smothering comfort
like the silk-soft pillows of your lips
last Sunday morning,
unwrapping me with coaxing kisses,
your hands, worshipful,
your head bowed as though I were some
Levitican idol
— taking me deep into the forbidden heart
of your chant.
But you release me
like some dream-addled Pan,
roused from his reverie
to find you lying beside me,
half-wrapped in your shawl,
your feet treading the air
like two white doves,
oblivious before the hawk.
The talk in the office smells like a dead rat to me,
but after a long day, home feels like
a quiet country church
— the kind converted to a hostelry.
And later, as we sit on the couch
admiring our new TV, that chatters
matter-of-fact-checked like a Bible,
we both agree that it’s all a hoax,
dissembled from a cereal box,
and we congratulate ourselves on our survival.
But as I wrap you up in bed at night,
and I feel you tied to me
like a ribbon fastened tight,
the sorrow and despair of our sly grift
takes comfort in tomorrow:
yet another unopened gift.