The collar no longer smells of you;
washed it by mistake. Pay bills remotely
and Tesco delivers in the warmth
of central heating - which clicks, fires
up again, haven’t worn gloves since
you bought me those boots - that sit
by the back door like a patient dog,
as snowflakes tickle glass.
My cotton dress grazes naked knees,
no-one sees me save the Tesco’s man;
he wants to ask why tinned rice pudding
is delivered in the smell of summer -
and now it’s ice-cream, he ignores
the irony, I do know it’s winter.
If you'd like to say something about this poem, Sonia Hendy would be pleased to
hear from you.