Car park, Wednesday evening,
post school pick-up.
What a time, I think,
for it to reappear, a fly
woozily re-entering the kitchen,
uninvited dark blot.
For ten years, we’d celebrate,
champagne in a cold sweat.
You said after five no presents
and yet... Flowers my way, Hellebore,
bowing blushed cups. A sports biography
for you. Future dust gatherers.
Now this, twelve seasons down.
Bag for life, whole milk, son for life
with mud-smudged fingers. The traffic
should be cleared by now.
What’s for dinner, he asks, as I drop
the memory like loose change.