365 Poems / 1 – Life Renovation
I turn the thermostat and the radiators
quietly mumble. It is spring,
but my old house is cold, and I want you
to be comfortable.
I don’t want to tell you
a girl has never stayed long enough
to ask for the heating to be switched on.
You sip Coke from the only glass I have
that isn’t cracked, then put it back.
It’s not flat enough yet.
I’ve known you less than forty-eight hours,
but have already found the Danish flag
tattooed under your right hip,
the narwhal across your ribcage,
and the constellation of freckles
nestled at the small of your back.
I know the rustic apron around your upper body
is worn as an accessory, and not a mistake,
and I have fallen for your quirky reality.
I quietly, slowly mouth our names,
like I’m listing ingredients
for something significant.
You say you were attracted to me
because of my creative swearing.
I tell you the back of your head
caught my eye, the dip dyed almond white
and peacock green hair swept across
your shoulder blades.
I wanted to know you when I noticed
you drawing huskies in clothing,
while waiting for your turn to buy stamps
before the bank holiday weekend shut down.
You keep eying the cat, desperate
to let him out. I have to gently
turn your head. You argue
he’s just a small version of a lion,
that hunting has preoccupied him
from birth and he must be allowed
to run wild, have all senses alert
and muscles tensed,
even for a little while.
I nearly give in, when you bite
your bottom lip.
Suddenly, it is tuesday.
The system is cranking up again
and I wake up expecting you gone.
But you are at the table, with hot coffee,
the cat draped across your lap
like this is something you could get used to.