On Sunday Night

On Sunday night we howl “I just wanna make love to you” into broom and mop handles.

And whirling around our cluttered kitchen, we stamp our feet on discarded shards of potato peelings.

Then breathless we sit down to eat. We wonder at the scandals that have slipped in through the bricks. We unpick each others prettiness and set the straight things crooked bit by bit.

Then we sit back, fat with food and chatter. Never more relaxed than now.

Then a soft knock is planted on the distant front door. It’s the two little boys who live over the road. They’re maybe six, or seven, maybe eight years old.

They present us with a rose each; pungent and illicitly plucked from a nicer, brighter street.

We look at each other and blush, as pink as the flowers, we are suddenly and stupidly touched.

Jemima Foxtrot