One Saturday 1980.

You began to put away 

the shopping 

we had bought from town. 

She eyed you quite a lot, 

you said 

pausing by 

the larder door. 

Who? 

I said. 

That cashier 

at the checkout, 

you said. 

I didn’t notice, 

I said. 

Well she did, 

you said, 

eyed you closely. 

I was preoccupied, 

I said, 

watching the prices. 

You put more items away 

and said nothing more. 

Are you sure 

you didn’t notice her 

eyeing you? 

You said. 

No, why would I? 

I said. 

I bet she fancied you, 

you said. 

I wouldn’t know, 

I said. 

She was all fingers 

and thumbs watching you, 

you said. 

I put the last items 

in the larder 

and closed the door. 

You put the kettle on 

and put tea 

in the teapot. 

I lit a cigarette 

and offered you one 

and lit both. 

I bet she’s one 

of those types 

who ogles 

other women’s husbands, 

you said. 

Who? 

I said. 

That w***e 

at the checkout, 

you said. 

I wouldn’t know, 

I said inhaling smoke.

 Just like a man, 

you said, 

can’t see what’s 

in front of him. 

I thought of going upstairs 

and typing up 

the next part 

of my long poem, 

but sat sipping the tea 

and smoking 

the cigarette instead. 

The last time I went upstairs 

to our room to type 

you came up 

and we ended up 

in bed.