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foyer
Do you have the same dream, too?
Where you tell me how you’ve missed my touch,
and I tell you how the deeper I fell
the further my inhibitions slipped.
When we wake, we walk down the hall
past the leather sofa in the foyer
towards the sound of your fathers voice
and the stamping of your brothers feet.
We sit and chat, over the box in the corner,
just loud enough to hear each other.
Your stepmother holds her robe drawn across her torso
as she tries to read our lips.
I make small talk with the bubbles blown by the baby,
wrestle with the climbing toddler,
laugh with the timid teenager
and listen to the adults ramble on.
The distraction of a waist height tug is infectious
and you’re summoned to attention.
You caringly tend to a loose shoelace
and see them to the busied garden, laden with projects.
We make tea in the same setting
only the mugs are in different cupboards.
It’s a strange familiarity for the both of us…
The plasterer walks me round,
reeling off prices as we stroll.
I pay polite attention, making notes in case quizzed,
but hint towards the decision maker, which surly can’t be me.
