They have been together,
give or take, for fifteen years.
Their marriage in the clasp
of puberty, its voice deepening,
its stubble sprouting.
Not long ago, shopping.
Necessary. Kid’s birthday.
It comes around quick,
like lunch, paying for the Ploughman’s
at the self-service in town
when the clock flicks to twelve.
Her right hand on his right hand.
They still do this,
though not quite as often.
Today,
he returns from work, wrenches
the tie out from beneath the collar
of a shirt she ironed yesterday.
Son, out.
Daughter, also out.
The fridge plagued with magnets
and a list; Milk,
Bread,
Eggs?
Inside, two beers,
sweating cold.
Later, he thinks.
How’s your day been darling?
We need to be at the school at six.
Oh yes.
They need to hear
how their progenies
excel at the expressive arts.
He hasn’t been expressive in years.
Hours expire.
Now his bare feet slide
under the duvet.
The wife reads a while,
Sunday Times bestseller.
Then she hugs him,
touches the skin she has known
since she was nineteen
at Northampton, literary sponge
absorbing Shakespeare and Joyce.
It is warm.
It is something
that has not changed.
The two of them are content.
They know they can
always have this.