How I Wish You With Me

 

How I Wish You With Me

 

‘How I wish you with me,’

but I’m more Sweeney –

call me Dobson

stirring the bath – I let her raise dust,

watch spinning wheels

depart to break bread, ponder

if there’s communion wine used

or if they make do with grape juice.

It’s crushed super-sweet -

I know this,

having braised lamb shanks,

seasoned them with mint

sipped jus; still winced.

I noted there’s still a soupçon of rust

about the knees in the gym

this morning - spoilt my quadriceps

from that step too far

I took. Golden the Glossop days

and how I cursed,

unswallowing every expletive ever learnt -

a trip I took on trust,

sent tumbling like Iranian stocks,

absorbers not enough for shocks,

belly’s but a backpack of rocks,

left only with regret

for the sweet and sour pork balls

I didn’t get.

Still, she pulled me up,

from the rowing machine –

where I’d managed a ginger stroke or two

asked me to film her lifting weights -

‘Great tits dear, nice ass,’

I called, as you do:

you're told you shouldn’t these days,

but clearly we’re both out of date

because, 'Thank you,' and she laughs.

Later looking at the watch-fit, contemplate

my obesity – reading the grim news:

She scolds me, ‘You’re pogi,’

and tells me she still has use

for all of that which we call our own.

I could complain she’d adjust my waist

quite easily if I lose the requisite -

but she would’ve called me out

for talking shit

if she’d ever used words like that.

Instead, she drops me here to sit out 2 hours

to write of cast-offs, sailors, ships

as she communes with those higher powers

that I somewhere let slip.