Listening to the neighbours.

listen: no-one ever
shits anymore.
everyone just talks
through long nights
about politics,
and the way tv now
is better than it used to be.
and the internet.

what ever happened
to just sleeping in
listening to the neighbours
shitting next door
through thin walls
behind music?
sleeping in
next to someone
stretched out
like a field
on a map?

you lie
on your belly
and my fingers
play your backbone
like a keyboard.
in the morning it’s very hot.

we are not
neighbours. I suggest
getting coffee
when my belly makes noise
and I realise you’ll listen
if I try to use the bathroom
to use the bathroom.

Tension.

actually
there was very little
of that. we just went,
together and onward,
as easy and careful
as men boxing plums. I think
if we’d been going to fight at all
then we wouldn’t have moved
in together. we were happy already;
why go
and spoil things?

I put books on my bookshelves
and she arranged her houseplants.
we split chores, deciding on lunch.
it could have been
a sonnet, the way impacts
split. nothing
was all that
important. we cared
about different
things. we did the things
I wanted. did the things
she wanted.

Fanfare.

I piss. it feels ok
and I walk through the house,
making my way
to the kitchen.
you are not here
in any of the house,
or at least you are not
in my parts of it.
the dog is.
she wags to see me,
but doesn’t get up
or acknowledge me otherwise – I like that.
we live together – it’s not like I need
any fanfare.

and autumn has given way to winter
suddenly with coldness,
like someone’s garage
and a roof
and heavy wet snow.