365 Poems / 1 – Life Renovation

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.